"I could not murder my sister," I finally screamed. "I loved her with all my soul." But the thing behind the curtain—enveloping, omnicient—continued its torturing queries as insistently as ocean waves collapsing on a dead shore. "No, none of that is true; she was not those things. She was my twin, my companion, my teacher, my—"
I could not go on. I wanted to do something horrible to myself and bring everything to an end. And what could be more catastrophic than to draw back the curtains before me, gaining the most insane and self-destroying revelation imaginable. But I was bound to the chair, or so I thought before realising the truth: that I had never been so fettered, that it was only some perverse illusion which caused me to believe otherwise.
I rose stiffly from the chair, apprehensive of my new freedom, and approached the curtain. Something now seemed familiar about it, something in its folds and texture. But there was no opportunity to think at length about these things, for my terror was becoming too intense to bear any longer. Seizing the soft material in my hands at the point where the two sides of the curtain came together, I resolutely spread my arms and gazed within.
There, in the dark recesses which I searched with my sight, I saw nothing more than another curtain, an inner curtain that was a twin of the outer one.
I awoke screaming. And this initial terror was infinitely exacerbated when I found that I was not in my own room but was lying in my sister's bed… alone.
Adelaide!
4. The last lesson
I must cease this incessant talking to myself. Any moment now my searching of the house will reveal the place where she has secreted herself, and then I'll have someone else to talk with once again. But suppose she is no longer in the house. Suppose she has gone to the town again, damn her. No, I mustn't say that… she has every right. Adelaide! Aaadelllaide! Where are you? Perhaps I shouldn't be looking for her in these clammy cellars. Why should she be down here? And that horrible squealing of the beasts from below is worse than ever.
I can hear them all over the house now. Silence, you sullen filthy fiends! I will find her despite you.
There she is. No, just the mirror at the end of the hallway. Oh, Adelaide, I'm still the fool you always knew I was. I think you are lost but your presence greets me every place I look. Here now in the library I've found you reading to me tales out of old books. You loved those times as much as I, didn't you? I never thought I was keeping you from places you would rather be. It was just so hard to be alone and to think we would not always remain together every moment of our lives. You were my only life, Adelaide.
Now walking the hallways of our house, I think I see your shadow next to mine there upon the wall. But how many impossible things have I already thought real: that we always lived in eternity; that we were more than ourselves; that we could surmount the strangeness which exists even between twins such as we; that there were no secrets dividing us?
But those secrets never estranged us in this memory-sealed room, where I can hardly bring myself to pause in my search for you. Here you sang for me in a way that made me imagine we had both passed quietly out of life and were no more than sheer essences harmonising in pools of colour and faded radiance. Painful now to trudge through musty rooms and search the ruddy shadows for your fugitive self, to listen for the tainted echoes of your pure voice only when those beasts momentarily stop harassing the silence with their demon whining. But I'll search on… in every horrible room, for that is what they now are, that is what you have made them.
I'll search the room from which I saw you shyly slipping away one afternoon, and behind whose door I saw that chilling dummy, its hands planted arrogantly on wooden hips and its head thrown back in a frozen burst of laughter. I'll search the room where once stayed a certain tutor of yours, whom I never saw except one night as a mere shadow in the garden, a shadow that looked as if it were seeking the smell and feel of damp earth. I'll search the room of masks and mirrors which you didn't think I knew about. I'll search the room where the clock you once brought to our home even now coughs out its chime with lungs that are not wholly brazen. I'll search the room you decorated in red and black, the room to which you retreated periodically to speak prayers which I pray you did not intend me to hear as I stood outside the door. And I'll search the room about which you denied there was anything wrong but where I continued to find—
Oh Adelaide, I'll search all the rooms that have made this house a labyrinth of unholy ciphers. But foremost has it been an infernal conservatory of blasphemous illumination—with me its dull pupil! And you, my classmate, my instructress, my guide in the ways of estrangement: What is the lesson now? Where are the tones of your learned voice? Where—
No, it is not true. That is not you, your voice I hear calling from up there.
Allan, I am here.
Not from your own room, which was the very first place I searched.
Hurry, Allan, hurry.
Adelaide!
No, you cannot be here. You cannot be standing behind this door.
Yes, my brother. Come closer and welcome your sister on her return.
Adelaide, your white nightgown; the blood. Please forgive me. sister. I cannot even explain to you—I felt…
All alone, I know. And betrayed. Lost and lonely Allan. You were always alone, my brother, and so was I. It could never have been otherwise. I know how my lies have hurt you, and what they drove you to do. But none of that matters now, none of that ever mattered, for if we could not truly share our lives then at least we always shared a soul, did we not? That is the only thing, despite all the masks and mirrors and whatever it was we thought we were. So many things we could not share until now. Now I can share with you the most precious thing of all… I will share my death. Come to me and share my death. Yes, closer. Do not think about the blood, it is both of ours. Now even closer. See how your blood flows with mine.
Your blood is inside me.
And yours in me. We share a soul, my brother. We share a soul.
Adelaide.
Allan.
SILENCE.
Charnelhouse Of The Moon (1981)
First published in Punk-Surrealist Cafe #6, 1981.
Entranced hilarity was perhaps his first but certainly not his only reaction when from a hidden bed of shadows he gazed upon the place and its curious workings. He had journeyed far too far merely for that. And truly novel sensations were rare enough without diluting them in the swill of banal combinations. Much, much more, he had heard, awaited one who would go down from the moon's crystal-dusted mirror of dreams and travel to that fleshy mound which stood out from the void like a chunk of fresh meat set redly within a diamond. There, they said with voices thin and fine as the air of imagination, you may roll your eyes in a living mirror and leave your lunar immunity to such things... behind. It is our reflecting reservoir, so the speak, where a graveyard has sunk low into the muck. Oh, we envisage it endlessly in our ceremral exploits of the cosmic macabre; but go, go there if you must, and see.
He did see, after arduously strolling across a landscape colored in a rainbow of open wounds, radiant against the blackness that waits beyond the footlights of stark autopsies. With a little skip he leapt over streams, their translucence divided into a veinwork of tributaries, viscous but still chuckling through crow-footed ruts. He was tempted to drink from these, never having refreshed himself with anything so palpable; but this was a minor delight and he should save its savoring as a final consolation should his destination disappoint him in more ways than he could reasonably expect. And here, at last in truth it was: the distinguished thing.
It seemed no more than a big box of boards soaring like a mountain where gleaming black clouds roil about the summit. It was cheaply buttressed at its base by long planks which leaned against the walls like unvigilant watchmen. Other comparisons he could easily have conjured but needed to conserve his imagination for the no doubt inspiring feast inside the amazing structure. He entered unseen amid darkness and confusion and sounds of la
bor.
Entranced hilarity was perhaps his first but certainly not his only reaction when when from a hidden bed of shadows he gazed upon the place and its curious workings. Complex hybrids and cross-breeds of sentiments were born from each strange menage of mind, emotions and senses. So this was what it was like to live outside the austere atmosphere of the lunar visionary—to, in fact, live at all in any proper sense of the word. The place, to put it plainly and without the evocations of vagueness, was... was something quite similar in principle to what a complete outsider's conception of a slaughterhouse might be. The beasts themselves did not make any audible sound, standing uniformly docile, cornered in fragile corrals. To his hearing, however, their very silence seemed a kind of music, a sterile harmony as pure as the white of their hides, the white lines of their elegant necks and glossy manes. And they all remained unspattered despite the gloomy filth that seemed to be everywhere, even rising from the ground as a gray ghost of steam.
Marauding through the greasy haze were huge men who were apparently clad in nothing but long, black, rubbery aprons. Their faces were parodies of divinities of apes. They moved with graceless deliberation (his exact impression was more expansively articulated), as if they were being just adequately manipulated by powers in themselves more stealthy. Still, the pristinely pale creatures obeyed them without a struggle, glancing upwards a little shyly at the last moment when the gory mallet came down and smashed them between the eyes, right below the spot where a spiraled horn projected from their sweatless foreheads. The gods, he imagined, had no uncertain uses for such well-formed cornua. Without delay the butchers separated these appendages from the fallen carcasses. They appeared to snap off easily, like icicles.
He then watched the flaying of the carcasses and the hanging of the hides along the wall like old coats. What royal stoles these would make! he thought, for a monarch of the imagination. And the creatures' meat was laid bare: an inner pink as perfect as their outer white. (It was all so exciting, he gasped inwardly in the shadows.) The ideal fare for one not accustomed to gross nourishment. But what a scandal the way the processing was handled, the way hooks came down from high above and brusquely lifted the pretty flesh into the blackness. Was there even a roof to this colosseum of butchery, or did the eye glancing upwards see far over the walls and deep into the old, old well of the abyss? His fair eyelashes fluttered with dreams and curiosity, a cornucopia of universal figures and fancy images. Then his reverie was brough to an end, quite crudely interrupted; and entranced hilarity, leaping towards hysteria, was only a small part of what he felt.
Well now, look what we got here, brothers, said one of the big boys in black apron, massaging his meaty and enbristled cheeks in a fairytale parody of thoughtfulness. The others gathered around, some carrying monstrous mallets and others caressing the blades of surgically sharp instruments. They chucked unambiguously. They nodded. They whispered among themselves. (A simple style is best now.) They watched one of his pale, slender hands wipe something from his taut brow. He then stared at his open hand as though at something he had never seen or imagined. And then he realized the sort of place he was in: that the filthy glamor of it was just a disguise for another place which was without light or air—a jewel-hard darkness. A place he could never know in the way he really wanted. And he realized what was going to happen to him now. The massive figures hefted their tools, closing in. And he laughed a little, for at that moment entranced hilarity was not entirely absent from his perception of this pageant... and the obscure but demanding role he was about to play.
Les Fleurs (1981)
First published in Dark Horizons #23, 1981
Also published in: Songs Of A Dead Dreamer, The Nightmare Factory.
This is the revised version from Songs Of A Dead Dreamer - the 1981 version is available here.
April 17th. Flowers sent out today in the early a.m.
May 1st. Today—and I thought it would never happen again—I have met someone about whom, I think, I can be hopeful. Her name is Daisy. She works in a florist shop! The florist shop, I might add, where I quietly paid a visit to gather some sorrowful flowers for Clare, who to the rest of the world is still a missing person. At first, of course, Daisy was politely reserved when I asked about some lilting blossoms for a loved one's memorial. I soon cured her, however, of this unnecessarily detached manner. In my deeply shy and friendly tone of voice I asked about some of the other flowers in the shop, ones having nothing to do with loss, if not everything to do with gain. She was quite glad to take me on a trumped-up tour of hyacinths and hibiscuses. I confessed to knowing next to nothing about commercial plants and things, and remarked on her enthusiasm for this field of study, hoping all the while that at least part of her animation was inspired by me. “Oh, I love working with flowers,” she said. “I think they're real interesting.” Then she asked if I was aware that there were plants having flowers which opened only at night, and that certain types of violets bloomed only in darkness underground. My inner flow of thoughts and sensations suddenly quickened. Though I had already sensed she was a girl of special imagination, this was the first hint I received of just how special it was. I judged my efforts to know her better would not be wasted, as they have been with others. “That is real interesting about those flowers,” I said, smiling a hothouse warm smile. There was a pause which I filled in with my name. She then told me hers. “Now what kind of flowers would you like?” she asked. I sedately requested an arrangement suitable for the grave of a departed grandmother. Before leaving the shop I told Daisy I might need to stop by again to satisfy some future floral needs. She seemed to have no objection to this. With the vegetation nestled in my arm I songfully walked out of the store. I then proceeded directly to Chapel Gardens cemetery. For a while I sincerely made the effort to find a headstone that might by coincidence my lost one's name. And any dates would just have to do. I thought she deserved this much at least. As events transpired, however, the recipient of my floral memorial had to be someone named Clarence.
May 16th. Daisy visited my apartment for the first time and fell in love with its quaint refurbishments. “I adore well-preserved old places,” she said. It seemed to me she really did. I thought she would. She remarked what decorative wonders a few plants—of varying species—would do for the ancient rooms. She was obviously sensitive to the absence of natural adornments in my bachelor quarters. “Night-blooming cereuses?” I asked, trying not to mean too much by this and give myself away. A mild grin appeared on her face, but it was not an issue I thought I could press at the time, and even now I only delicately press it within these scrapbook pages. She wandered about the apartment at great length. I watched her, seeing the place with new eyes. Then suddenly I realized I had regrettably overlooked something. She looked it over. The object was positioned on a low table before a high window and between its voluminous curtains. It seemed so vulgarly prominent to me then, especially since I hadn't intended to let her see anything of this sort so early in our friendship. “What is this?” she asked, her voice expressing a kind of outraged curiosity bordering on plain outrage. “It's just a sculpture. I told you I do things like that. It's not every good. Kind of dumb.” She examined the piece more closely. “Watch that,” I warned. She let out a tiny, unserious “Ow.” “Is it supposed to be some type of cactus?” she inquired. For a moment she seemed to take a genuine interest in that obscure objet d'art. “It has little teeth,” she observed, “on these big tongue things.” They do look like tongues, I never thought of that. Rather ingenious comparison, considering. I hoped her imagination had found fertile ground in which to grow, but instead she revealed a moribund disgust. “You might have better luck passing it off as an animal than a plant, or a sculpture of a plant, or whatever. It's got a velvety kind of fur and looks like it might crawl away.” I felt like crawling away myself at that point. I asked her, as a quasi-botanist, if there were not plants resembling birds and other animal life. This was my feeble attempt to exculpate my creation from my
charges of unnaturalness. It's strange how you're sometimes forced to assume an unsympathetic view of yourself through borrowed eyes. Finally I mixed some drinks and we went on to other things. I put on some music.
Soon afterward, however, the bland harmony of the music was undermined by an unfortunate dissonance. That detective (Briceberg, I think) arrived for an unexpected encore of his interrogation re: the Clare affair. Fortunately I was able to keep him and his questions out in the hallway the entire time. We reviewed the previous dialogue we'd had. I reiterated to him that Clare was just someone I worked with and with whom I was professionally friendly. It appears that some of my co-workers, unidentified, suspect that Clare and I were romantically involved. “Office gossip,” I countered, knowing she was one girl who knew how to keep certain secrets, even if she could not be trusted with others. No, I said, I definitely had no idea where she could have disappeared to. I did manage to subversively hint, however, that I would not be surprised if in a sudden flight of neurotic despair she had impulsively relocated in some land of her heart's desire. I myself had despaired to find that within Claire's dark and promisingly moody borders lay a disappointing dreamland of white picket fences and flower-printed curtains. No, I didn't tell that to the detective. Besides, I further argued, it was well known in the office that Clare had begun dating someone approximately seven to ten days (my personal estimation of the term of her disloyalty) before her disappearance. So why bother me? This, I found out, was the reason: he had also been informed, he informed me, of my belonging to a certain offbeat organization. I replied there was nothing offbeat in philosophical study; furthermore, I was an artist, as he well knew, and, as anybody knows, artistic personalities have a perfectly natural tendency toward such things. I thought he would understand if I put it that way. He did. The man appeared satisfied with my every statement. Indeed, he seemed overly eager to dismiss me as a suspect in the case, no doubt trying to create a false sense of security on my part and lead me to make an unwitting admission to the foulest kind of play. “Was that about the girl in your office?” Daisy asked me afterward. “Mm-hm,” I noised. I was brooding and silent for a while, hoping she would attribute this to my inward lament for that strange girl at the office and not the lamentably imperfect evening we'd had. “Maybe I'd better go,” she said, and very soon did. There was not much of our date left to salvage anyways. After she abandoned me I got very drunk on a liqueur tasting of flowers from open fields, or so it seemed. I also took this opportunity to reread a story about some men who visit the white waste regions of a polar wonderland. I don't expect to dream tonight, having already sated myself with this frigid fantasy. Brotherhood of Paradise offbeat indeed!
The Collected Short Fiction Page 2