But no existence, however remote, is without its trails and traps.
***
After staying several days in the old town, it is possible that I had been made acutely sensitive by the solitude of the place and by the solitary manner of my life. Late one afternoon I was relaxing in an ancient chair beside those kaleidoscopic windows, when there was a knock at the door. It was only the faintest of knocks, but so unexpected was this elementary event, and so developed was my sensitivity, that it seemed like some unwonted upheaval of atmospheric forces, a kind of cataclysm of empty space, an earthquake in the invisible. Hesitantly I walked across the room and stood before the door, which was only a simple brown slab without molding around its frame. I opened it.
"Oh," said the little man waiting in the hallway outside. He had neatly groomed silver hair and strikingly clear eyes, two black circles of astonishing alertness. "This is embarrassing. I must have been given the wrong address. The handwriting on this note is such chaos," he said, looking at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. "Ha! Never mind, I'll go back and check."
However, the man did not immediately leave the scene of his embarrassment; instead, he pushed himself upwards on the points of his tiny shoes and stared over my shoulder into my room. His entire body, compact as it was in stature, seemed to be in a state of concentrated excitement. Finally he said, "Beautiful view from your room," and he smiled a very tight little smile.
"Yes, it is," I replied, glancing back into the room and not really knowing what to think. When I turned around the man was gone.
For a few startled moments I did not move. Then I stepped into the hallway and gazed up and down its dim length. It was not very wide, nor did it extend a great distance before turning a windowless corner in either direction. All the doors to the other rooms were closed, and not the slightest noise emerged from any of them. At last I heard what sounded like footsteps descending flights of stairs on the floors below, faintly echoing through the silence, speaking the quiet language of old rooming houses. I felt relieved and returned to my room. The remainder of the day was uneventful and entirely peaceful.
That night, however, I experienced a very strange dream, the culmination, I thought afterwards, of both my lifetime of dreaming and of the recent influence of my sojourn in the old town. Certainly my view of the town was thereafter dramatically transformed. And yet, despite the nature of the dream, this change was not immediately for the worse.
In the dream I occupied a very small dark room, a high room whose windows looked out on a maze of streets which unraveled beneath an abyss of stars. But although the stars were spread across a great reaching blackness, the streets below were bathed in a stale gray dimness which suggested neither night nor day nor any natural phase between them. Gazing out the window, I felt that unseen things were taking place in obscure corners of this scene, none of them having any kind of reality to them, all of them vague and carried out in a state of sluggish inertia. There seemed to be some particular cause for me to worry about certain things that were happening in one of the other rooms of the town, a very particular room whose location was entirely unknown to me. I had the idea that a peculiar correspondence existed between the activities in that room and my own life, but at the same time I felt infinitely removed from them: What transpired in this other room in no sense concerned my personal fate, yet somehow would profoundly affect it. I seemed to be an unseen speck lost in a convoluted festival of strange schemes. And it was this very remoteness from the designs of my dream universe, this feeling of fantastic homelessness amid a vast alien pattern, that was the source of unnameable and possibly limitless terrors. I was no more than an irrelevant parcel of living tissue caught in a place I should not be, threatened with being snared in some great dredging net of doom, an incidental shred of flesh pulled out of its element of light and into an icy blackness. In the dream nothing supported my existence, which I felt at any moment might be horribly altered or simply… ended. In the profoundest meaning of the expression, my life was of no matter.
But still I could not keep my attention from straying into that other room, sensing what elaborate plots were evolving there. I thought I could see indistinct figures occupying that spacious chamber, a place furnished with only a few chairs of extremely odd design and commanding a dizzying view of the starry blackness. The great round moon of the dream created sufficient illumination for the night's purposes, painting the bare walls of the mysterious room a deep aquatic blue; the stars, unneeded and ornamental, presided as lesser lamps over this gathering and its nocturnal offices.
As I observed this scene—though not "bodily" present, as is the way with dreams—it became my conviction that certain rooms offered a marvelous solitude for such functions or festivities. Their atmosphere, that intangible quality which exists apart from its composing elements of shape and shade, was the dreamy aether of remote antiquity, as if an entirely separate stream of time flowed through these places, where a few moments might count as centuries or millennia. Nevertheless, at the exact same time this atmosphere was no different from any of the old rooms, the high and lonely rooms, I had known in waking life, even if this room seemed to border on the voids of space and its windows opened onto the infinite outside. And I found myself speculating that, if this room itself was not one of a unique species, perhaps it was the occupants that had introduced the singular element.
Although each of them was draped from head downward in a massive cloak, the manner in which this material descended in strange foldings to the floor, and the unusual structure of the chairs in which these creatures were seated, betrayed an oddness that inspired my curiosity and terror. What might these robes reveal? I could not help wondering. Who were these beings, so unnaturally shaped? Their tall, angular chairs arranged in a circle, they appeared to be leaning in every direction, like unsettled monoliths. It was as if they were assuming postures that were mysteriously symbolic, locking themselves in patterns hostile to the analysis of mundane order. In like fashion, their heads inclined in peculiar relationship to the rest of their lofty forms, nodding in ways heretical to terrestrial anatomy. And with their unseen faces they whispered almost incessantly, for I can think of no more precise word to describe the soft buzzing which seemed to serve them as speech. Or was it the suspension of this sound that conveyed their unknown message to one another, those infrequent but remarkable silences which terrified me far more than the alien murmur?
But the dream offered another detail which possibly related to the mode of communication among these whispering figures who sat in stagnant moonlight. For projecting out of the bulky sleeves dangling from each figure's robe were thin and delicate appendages that appeared to have withered away, wilted claws bearing numerous talons that tapered off into drooping tentacles. And all of these stringy digits seemed to be working together with lively and unceasing agitation.
At first sight of these gruesome gestures I felt myself about to awaken, to carry back into the world a sense of terrible enlightenment without sure meaning or possibility of expression in any language except the whispered vows of this eerie sect. But I remained longer in this dream, far longer than was natural. I witnessed the insect-like nervousness of those shriveled mandibles, the brittle excitement of these members which seemed to be revealing an intolerable knowledge, some ultimate disclosure concerning the order of things. Such movements suggested an array of hideous analogies: the spinning legs of spiders, the greedy rubbing of a fly's spindly feelers, the rippling of a lizard's tongue or the twitching of its tail. But my cumulative sensation in the dream was only partially involved with what I would call the triumph of the grotesque; for much greater was a quite different perception, one accompanied by a bizarre elation tainted with nausea. This revelation—in keeping with the style of certain dreams—was complicated and exact, allowing no ambiguities or confusions to comfort the dreamer. And what was imparted to my witnessing mind was the vision of a world in a trance, a hypnotized parade of beings sleepwalking to the
odious manipulations of their whispering masters, those hooded freaks who were themselves among the hypnotized. For there was a power superseding theirs, a power which they served and from which they merely emanated, some thing which was beyond the universal hypnosis by virtue of its very mindlessness, its awesome idiocy. These cloaked masters, in turn, partook in some measure of godhead, passively presiding as enlightened zombies over the multitudes of the entranced, that frenetic domain of the human sphere.
And it was at this place in my dream that I came to believe that there obtained a terrible intimacy between myself and those whispering effigies of chaos whose existence I dreaded for its very remoteness from mine. Had these beings, for some grim purpose comprehensible only to themselves, allowed me to intrude upon their infernal wisdom? Or was my unwanted access to such putrid arcana merely the outcome of some loathsome fluke in the universe of atoms, a chance intersection among the demonic elements of which all creation is composed? But the truth was notwithstanding in the face of these insanities; whether by calculation or accident, I was the chosen victim of the unknown. And I finally succumbed to an ecstatic horror at this hideous insight.
On waking, it seemed that I had carried back with me a tiny, jewel-like particle of this horrific ecstasy, and, by some alchemy of association, this darkly crystalline substance infused its magic into my image of the old town.
***
Although I formerly believed myself to be the consummate knower of the town's secrets, the day which followed my dream was one of unforeseen discovery. The streets that I looked upon that motionless morning were filled with new secrets and seemed to lead into the very essence of the extraordinary. And a previously unknown element appeared to have emerged in the composition of the town, one that must have been hidden within its most obscure quarters. I mean to say that, while these quaint, archaic facades still put on all the appearance of a dreamlike repose, there now existed, in my sight, evil stirrings beneath this surface. The town had more wonders than I had dreamed, a secreted cache of shadowy offerings. And somehow this undercurrent of deception, of corruption in disguise, served to intensify the town's most attractive aspects: A wealth of unsuspected sensations was now provoked by a few slanting rooftops, a low doorway, or a narrow backstreet. The mist spreading evenly through the town early that morning was luminous with dreams.
The whole day I wandered in a fevered exaltation throughout the old town, seeing it as if for the first time. I scarcely think that I stopped a moment to rest, and I am sure that I did not pause to eat. By late afternoon I might also have been suffering from a strain on my nerves, for I had spent the day nurturing a strange state of mind in which the purest euphoria was invaded and enriched by horrible, formless shadows of fear. Each time I rounded a street corner or turned my head to catch some beckoning sight, the darkest tremors were inspired by the hybrid spectacle I witnessed—splendid scenes broken with malign shadows, the lurid and the lovely forever lost in each other's embrace. And when I passed under the arch of an old street and gazed up at the towering structure before me, I was nearly overwhelmed.
My recognition of the place was immediate, though I had never viewed it from my present perspective. Suddenly I felt myself standing not outside in the street staring upwards, but looking down from the high room beneath that peaked roof. It was the highest room on the street, and no window from any of the other houses could see into it. The building itself, like some of those surrounding it, seemed to be empty, perhaps abandoned. I contemplated several ways by which I could force entry, but none of these methods was needed: The front door, contrary to my initial observation, was slightly ajar.
The place was indeed abandoned, stripped of its furnishings and fixtures, its desolate, tunnel-like hallways visible only in the sickly light which shone through unwashed, curtainless windows. Identical windows also appeared on the landing of each section of the staircase that climbed up through the central part of the house like a crooked spine. I stood in a near cataleptic awe of the world I had wandered into, this decayed paradise. It was a place of strange atmospheres of infinite melancholy and dread, the everlasting residue of some cosmic misfortune. I ascended the stairs with a solemn, mechanical intentness, stopping only when I had reached the top and found the door to a certain room.
And even at the time, I asked myself: Could I have entered this room with such unhesitant resolve if I truly expected to find something extraordinary within it? Was it ever my intention to confront the madness of the universe, or at least my own? I had to confess that although I had accepted the benefits of my dreams and fancies, I did not profoundly believe in them. At the deepest level I was their doubter, a thorough skeptic who had indulged a too-free imagination, and perhaps a self-made lunatic.
To all appearances the room was unoccupied. I noted this fact without the disappointment born of real expectancy, and also with a strange relief. Then, as my eyes adjusted to the confusing twilight of the room, I saw the circle of chairs.
They were as strange as I had dreamed, more closely resembling devices of torture than any type of practical or decorative object. Their tall backs were slightly bowed and covered with a coarse hide unlike anything I had ever beheld; the arms were like blades and each had four semicircular grooves cut into it that were spaced evenly across its length; and below were six jointed legs jutting outwards, a feature which transformed the entire piece into some crab-like thing with the apparent ability, as well as the sinister motive, for movement. If, for a stunned moment, I felt the idiotic impulse to install myself in one of these bizarre thrones of pain, I quickly extinguished this desire upon observing that the seat of each chair, which at first appeared to be composed of a smooth and solid cube of black glass, was in fact only an open cubicle filled with a murky liquid which quivered strangely when I passed my hand over its surface. And as I did this I could feel my entire arm tingle in a way which sent me stumbling backwards toward the door of that horrible room and which made me loathe every atom of the flesh which gripped the bones of that limb. I turned around to exit but was stopped by a figure standing in the doorway.
Although I had previously met the man, he now seemed to be someone quite different, someone openly sinister rather than merely enigmatic. When he had disturbed me the day before I could not have suspected his alliances: His manner had been vaguely unusual but very polite, and he had offered no reason to question his sanity. Now he appeared to be no more than a malignant puppet of madness. From the menacing, twisted stance he assumed in the doorway to the vicious and imbecilic expression that possessed the features of his face, he was a thing of strange degeneracy. Before I could back away from him, he took my trembling arm. "Thank you for coming to visit," he said in a voice that was a parody of his former politeness. He pulled me close to him; his eyelids lowered and his mouth widely grinned, as if he were enjoying a pleasant breeze on a warm day. And then he said, "They want you with them on their return. They want their chosen ones."
Nothing can describe what I felt on hearing those words which could only have meaning in a nightmare. Their implications were a quintessence of hellish delirium, and at that instant all the world's wonder turned suddenly to dread. I tried to free myself from the madman's grasp, shouting at him to let go of my hand. "Your hand?" he shouted back at me. Then he began to repeat the phrase over and over, laughing as if some sardonic joke had reached a conclusion within the depths of his lunacy. In his foul merriment he weakened, and I escaped. As I rapidly descended the many stairs of the old building, his laughter pursued me as hollow reverberations which filled the shadowy edifice.
And that freakish, echoing laughter remained with me as I wandered dazed in darkness, trying to flee my own thoughts and sensations. Gradually the terrible sounds that filled my brain subsided, but they were now replaced by a new terror—the whispering of strangers whom I passed on the nocturnal streets of the old town. And no matter how low they spoke or how quickly they silenced one another with embarrassed throat-clearings and stern looks,
their words reached my ears in fragments which I was able to reconstruct because of their frequent repetition. The most common ones were deformity, horrible, and disfigurement. If I had not been so distraught I might have approached these speakers with a semblance of politeness, cleared my own throat, and said, "I beg your pardon, but I could not help overhearing…And what exactly did you mean, if I may ask, when you said…" But I discovered for myself what those words meant—an unfortunate accident, poor man— when I returned to my room and stood before the mirror on the wall, holding my head in balance with a hand on either side.
For only one of those hands was mine.
The other belonged to them.
***
Life is the nightmare that leaves its mark behind to prove that it was real. And to suffer a solitary madness seems the joy of paradise when compared to the extraordinary condition in which one's own madness is merely an echo from the world outside. I have been lured away by dreams; all is nonsense now.
Let me write, while I still am able, that the transformation has not limited itself. I now find it difficult to continue this manuscript with either hand: These twitching tentacles can barely grasp the pen, and I am losing the will to push a shriveled paw across this page. While I have put myself at a great distance from the old town, its influence is undiminished. In these matters there is a terrible freedom from the bonds of space and time. But I remain bound by greater forces, strange powers that are at their work as I look helplessly on.
The Collected Short Fiction Page 37