Darker Masques

by J N Williamson

  In the humid caves and tunnels carved from living vines,

  where leprous anacondas coil, a virulent faith calls us.

  A sudden species fashions godhood in its own apotheosis.

  CREATURES OF TERROR

  CONSIDERING that the primary icons in horror’s past—man-made constructs, werewolves, possessing demons, shape-changers such as vampires—were monsters, it’s tempting to call the yams in this section “monster stories.” Or “freak and entity tales.” Curiously, though, self-styled experts rarely respect new fiction with such labels; these wonderfully weird stories deserve to be respected, and there are other characteristics that they have in common.

  Whether gigantic of size or power, befanged or horned, whether they’re even discernibly different from us, these creatures symbolize humankind’s oldest fear: that of something proximately humanoid, more substantial than psychotic thought, too close to us for comfort. And something else: The beings in this fiction have the knack for eliminating us from life almost without exertion, and instantly—the way a truck can crush and grind any one of us into nothingness, passionlessly. Without an iota of remorse.

  We all love tales such as these, even when we feel intellectually disdainful of them. Our inclination to smile superior, smug smiles is like whistling in the graveyard, or chuckling nervously while we watch Freddy Krueger go to work. Yet on paper, the crafting of such stories is far harder than it may seem at a glance. In the hands of craftsmen such as Simmons it approaches art; the perspicacious humor of Kisner and the audacity of Kcefauver may leave one limp. So don’t, please, take it for granted that you already know what’s going to happen when you’re reading about these Creatures of Terror.

  Because that’s when one of them may get you!

  James Kisner

  THE WILLIES

  “THE Litter” by Jim Kisner, in Masques II, drew within one bloody hair of achieving the final ballot for the Horror Writers of America’s first short fiction award. Wry and sardonic, observant and slightly off-center in his parabolic view of the rest of us, Kisner is the author of such novels as Strands, Nero’s Vice, and Slice of Life, and the horror maven for Ed Gorman’s marvelous Mystery Scene. In that capacity he has interviewed the likes of F. Paul Wilson, John Saul, Rex Miller, and Rick McCammon.

  Recent or upcoming appearances of J. K. include Graham Masterton’s Scare Care, Gorman’s and Marty Greenberg’s Stalkers, my How to Write Tales of Horror, Fantasy and Science Fiction, Grue, Gorezone, a reprint of “The Litter” in a William F. Nolan anthology from Dark Harvest entitled Urban Horrors, and a miraculously original tale in the Greenbergs’ Phantoms anthology (DAW).

  This story will give you a new look at an element of society you may never have looked at, really, before: the terrifying Willies.

  THE WILLIES

  James Kisner

  LON STOOD AT THE WINDOW, LOOKING down on the crowded streets of the city. His office was located on the third story of the building, so he had a clear view of the different varieties of humanity out and about on this pleasant autumn day.

  He liked watching people and amused himself by imagining who and what they were. Most of the persons he saw in the streets below were obviously young businessmen like himself, caught up in the electric pace of the metropolitan hustle—going to lunch, discussing market projections, and making dates for golf before the weather turned too cold. Yes, Ron thought, people just like me. They’ve got their act entirely together. Upwardly mobile. Sharp guys. Born to succeed.

  Weaving among the businessmen (and women, Ron amended mentally) were shoppers, schoolchildren playing hooky, street kids with ghetto blasters, and working stiffs, some of whom (Ron imagined) were going to the unemployment lines at the state office building the next block over, or perhaps to the police station to pay traffic fines and plead innocent to various misdemeanors.

  All these people seemed to Ron to have purpose, no matter how trivial they might be in the overall scheme of things. And Ron approved of that, because he believed a being without purpose was the most worthless thing imaginable. That’s why the winos bothered him so much.

  A withered man was slumped in an alley not far away. He sat on the rough pavement with his arms wrapped around his knees, mumbling through fragments of memories and luxuriating in me warmth of his piss-stained trousers. He could have been thirty-five or seventy, depending on the light he was seen in. Most of the time, though, he avoided being seen at all, preferring me almost perpetual, dim twilight of me alley.

  A few minutes each day, when the sun was directly overhead, the man would look up and vaguely wonder who he was and what exactly had happened to him. He couldn’t remember at what point he had ceased being whoever it was he had been and had become what he was now, which was still, at bottom, not much of anything; and sorting through all the imprints in the few (scant few) brain cells he had left yielded very little to which he could append a definite identity, nor any shred of certainty.

  After the sun had passed over, he would settle down again and not worry about anything other man panhandling to get enough money for a jug, which he’d do when the urge came over him, usually later in the day.

  And as he turned his face back to his knees, hugging himself a little tighter perhaps before shrinking down into inertia, he comforted himself with the old one-and-three axiom he had formulated long ago to propel him through life. The old one-and-three consisted of one thing he suspected was true, and three things of which he was almost abso-goddamn-lutely certain.

  The one thing he suspected was that he had tuberculosis.

  The three things of which he was certain were: that one, he was a man (though—he inspected his withered tool, a sort of homuncular duplicate of his face—only on rare occasions); two, he was a wino; and three, his name was Willie.

  All winos are named Willie, just as all bulldogs are named Spike.

  It was a breezy day in the city, but not unpleasantly so. There was just enough wind to carry shapeless things. Shapeless invisible things that nevertheless had purpose.

  “Ready to go to lunch?” Bill asked.

  Ron turned from the window slowly, reluctant to give up his people-watching.

  “Sure.” He sighed heavily. “Where to?”

  “Let’s walk somewhere. It’s such a nice day out, you don’t even need a jacket.”

  “Okay,” Ron said. “Let’s go over to the deli.”

  The wind bristled the hairs on Willie’s ears, and he ached suddenly for the comfort of a jug. He ordered his mind to relay a message to his limbs that it was time to stir—lunchtime, guys, when a lot of people are out and it’s a little easier to mooch a few quarters for a bottle. The cells in Willie’s body responded eventually to the mental imperative and he unfolded himself and lurched into a standing position, moving awkwardly and with great uncertainty, like a crude figure in an old cartoon movie.

  Life was a cartoon sometimes, for people like Willie. Maybe most of the time.

  Standing as erect as he could, Willie still resembled a question mark. He had developed the habit of constantly peering down, because he knew no one cared really to look him in the eyes. Most people just wanted to be rid of him, and the easiest way was to shove him four bits or a dollar, generally holding the money out in such a way as to avoid being touched by his smelly presence.

  He brushed off his colorless clothes with the palms of his hands, pausing here and there to rearrange a wrinkle or change the direction of the nap on the corduroy jacket that once had been brown. His trousers had been charcoal-gray, and his plaid shirt had once been predominantly blue. There was a woolen tie he never wore stuffed in one pocket and an obscenely snot-and-mucus-encrusted handkerchief in another pocket. In the back pocket of his trousers was a battered suede cap, which he thoughtfully removed and arranged on his head at a slight angle.

  Now ready to meet the public, Willie walked slowly out of the alley and onto the sidewalk. There certainly were a lot of people out today; it should be easy to make a
touch.

  Spare change, mister? Can you spare a dollar for a jug, mister? Jeez, mister, I really need a jug. Got a quarter for a cup of coffee? Spare four bits for a guy that really needs it?

  No use rehearsing, Willie decided at last. It didn’t matter what you said. They either gave you some goddamn money or they didn’t.

  He moved through the crowds on the sidewalk at a leisurely, almost lackadaisical pace, managing to beg seventy-five cents by the time he traveled the half block from the alley to the corner. Not bad, but not enough. He turned the corner and paused to stare at a newsstand where the latest men’s magazines were on sale. He blinked at the cover of a Penthouse from which a nearly nude woman seemed to be smiling at him. The way the artful camerawork hid her obvious sexual characteristics was admirable. Even Willie could appreciate it.

  A wind came up and flipped the cover slightly, creating an illusion that taunted Willie. As the sun played on the moving, glossy surface, the woman was suddenly animated, not alive but just seeming to be: a cartoon woman for a cartoon man like he was. Like Willie was.

  Hot damn!

  Willie’s withered brow wrinkled.

  He hadn’t had a woman in years, and even the most worn-out old hooker would turn him down now; but something strange stirred deep down inside him, perhaps a vague memory, a stray hormone wiggling through his brain reminding him of what once was, and how it had been for him as a younger man, before he became Willie and just about everything in him had turned off; not even latent any more, but almost absolutely dead.

  There are absolutes, even in a cartoon universe.

  When they sat across from each other in the deli devouring sloppy sandwiches, Ron and Bill were almost mirror images. They both wore crisp white shirts with button-down collars, striped rep ties, and slacks with the proper creases. Their faces were smooth and framed with neatly styled light-brown hair.

  “Pass the spice,” Ron said.

  Bill reached for the shaker of ground oregano and dried hot peppers, handed it to Ron.

  Ron opened his sandwich and liberally sprinkled the spice over its steaming contents. “Great lunch.”

  “Think I’ll have another iced tea.”

  “Should we have some dessert?”

  “Sure,” Bill said. “Let’s try that cannelloni stuff.”

  The tips of Willie’s fingers itched and his chest ached when he recalled the feel of warm flesh against his own, and, for a fleeting second, he thought he felt a little lead in his pencil.

  Then he shut the feeling off, abruptly, deciding it was unseemly after all and that he had better things to worry about than the raw longing for a goddamn woman.

  He didn’t need a woman, neither to look at nor to touch. They were just too much trouble for what you received in return from them, and they wasted money that was better spent on a jug.

  Wine never let you down like any female would, like every woman he’d ever known had done. Wine never broke its promise of sweet relief from the past, of numbing the senses for the present, and the surcease of sorrow from me already moribund future.

  He continued down the block, seeking enough hard cash to buy the jug that now seemed especially important. Wine made all the difference in life. Sweet wine. Not women.

  Goddamn Penthouse anyhow.

  Goddamn women.

  Pure evil is a potent force to be admired, and pure evil rode shapelessly on the wind, seeking something.

  It had no words with which to think, no brain cells in which to store memories, no substance, no organs of any kind, nor any function to worry about.

  It was an essence only. Pure. Driven. Its substance—that is, its absolute ethereal essence—was animated by a singular purpose: find its ultimate victim.

  And though the shapeless thing had no reason, it sensed somehow—in the striations of its invisible gossamer vapors—that there was poetry in its purpose.

  Very few things, living or dead, purposeful or purposeless, have poetry in them.

  “Yeah, you’re right, that was a great lunch,” Bill said as he and Ron left the deli.

  “Okay, I guess,” Ron said. “I think I ate too much, though. Those meatball sandwiches are real belly bombs. And, Lord, what was in that cannelloni?”

  “A little bit of everything, but mostly sugar.” Bill glanced at his watch. “Hey, it’s already after one. We’d better get back to the office on the double, or we’ll really get our asses chewed out.”

  “Hey, I’m not worried.”

  “We’ve been late getting back twice this week already.”

  “Oh, all right. Let’s cut down this alley.”

  Willie stood in the alley, propping himself against the brick wall with one hand while urinating. He glanced down at himself and grimaced. His old wrinkled penis had no shine to it at all. It was a dull piece of meat that knew nothing and sensed only the most basic biological imperatives. Willie cursed at it, tucked it back in and zipped up; then he folded himself in a crouching position against the opposite wall.

  He had a bottle of cheap wine, still in its brown paper bag, tucked under one arm. He had purchased it only a few minutes ago and had drunk almost all of it. Now he held the bottle up to his lips and finished it off, chugging it noisily. Then he hugged the empty to his body for a while, as if he might refill it with wishes, then sighed and tossed it away.

  Damn.

  It wasn’t quite enough to wipe him out. At least it took the edge off his senses, which was all he needed to settle into his afternoon stupor.

  “Life sucks,” he mumbled through purple, wine-stained lips, then smiled crookedly.

  The wind whipped through the alley, stirring up the little wads of trash, causing dust to whirl in tortuous little dances, and giving Willie a bit of a chill that was somehow soothing.

  He spat out a whimpering little sound as something settled in him.

  “Oh, hell,” Ron said as they neared the end of the alley, “would you look at that? A goddamn wino.”

  “So just walk by him,” Bill said. “He’s harmless.”

  “Winos aren’t harmless! They’re a drain on society.”

  “Don’t be so heavy, Ron. We have to get back to—”

  “What purpose do they serve? None. Just derelicts. They occupy space, that’s all. They ought to round them all up and shoot them!”

  “Come on, Ron. The poor old guy will hear you.”

  “Let him.”

  Ron stopped directly in front of Willie and looked down with evident scorn. “What a mess.” He started to turn away.

  That was when Willie grabbed him.

  “Hey, you old rummy, let go! Let go before I kick your teeth in.”

  “I’ll handle this.” Bill leaned down to pull the wino’s hands from Ron’s legs. He tugged at the bony fingers with all his strength, but he couldn’t pry them away.

  Then he found himself up in the air.

  Then he was back on the pavement about ten feet away from his friend and the wino.

  He tried to get up and discovered his left leg was broken. Strangely, it didn’t hurt much.

  Ron stared down at Willie. “What the hell did you do?” He turned. “Bill?”

  “I can’t move.” A gasp. “Leg’s broken, I think.”

  Ron snarled, “You old bastard. Now I will give you a going-over.”

  Willie’s head snapped back abruptly. He glared up at Ron.

  Ron desperately tried to look away, but couldn’t. Willie’s eyes were red with tiny yellow snake-slit pupils that tore into Ron’s brain. Reflected in those eyes were miniature screaming things.

  And tombstones.

  Ron panicked tried to pull away again and realized the wino’s fingers had sprouted razorlike claws that were cutting into his calves. He bent over to beat the wino on the top of his skull, but some force shoved him back; the only thing that prevented him from falling was the claw grip on his legs.

  Ron screamed—but the sound died quickly in the alley, as if muffled by an unseen force. Then
he realized he could say or do nothing to escape what was happening. He was frozen in time for a moment, completely awestruck by the sudden transformation of the withered man, viewing it with a kind of fleeting detachment that reason could not alter:

  The top of Willie’s head had split open and became a huge mouth ringed with rows of pointed fangs, and out of this gaping red orifice came a stench of alcohol, blood, and piss that stung Ron’s nostrils so badly they began to bleed.

  The mouth-thing wasn’t finished growing, though. It ripped down the center of Willie’s body, stopping at his groin, and it grew more teeth and stank more and rippled obscenely.

  Then it was feeding time.

  Later, Bill couldn’t remember if he had passed out because of the pain in his leg or because of what he had seen.

  It didn’t matter. No one seemed to believe his story and there was very little evidence of what had happened; only a few nondescript stains and an old wino’s cap.

  Perhaps people would be more inclined to believe Bill later. Later, when more guys like Ron disappeared. Later, when more absolutes met more ultimate victims.

  Because there were more shapeless things in the wind, and a lot more Willies haunting the streets and alleys.

  Soon all the Willies would have a purpose.

  K. Marie Ramsland

  THE DRINKING PARTY

  AFTER writing her provocative psychological horror yarn “Nothing from Nothing Comes” for Masques II and the definitive chapter about “The Psychology of Horror and Fantasy Fiction” in a how-to book I edited, Dr. Ramsland moved with her husband—and her reputation as a Kierkegaard scholar—to a small town with a Lovecraftian name: Upper Black Eddy. There, she began to write horror novels.

  But new tales chosen by Martin and Roz Greenberg for their anthology Phantoms, and a delectable number entitled “Ghost Crabs,” in bloody Gorezone, altered Kathie’s image as a “brain.” Like all the gifted women it has been my joy to know, Katherine Marie Ramsland is probably more complex than most men. She loves costumes parties, paints at a professional level, sings with records. This is the lady who, in her how-to piece, wrote that we all want to “recall . . . our primordial selves.”