Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror

by Joyce Carol Oates

  “Look what I had to do to get my Jim! What I do to keep him.”

  “True,” Phyllis said. “You’re not a slippers and robe kinda girl.”

  Tiffany shrugged. “I like to look good. So sue me. But it gets me what I want.”

  Liz wondered what was so wondrous about Jim, a tall, GQ-handsome guy with a fake smile full of thirty-two perfect teeth and a seven-figure income that kept him out of the house 15/7, presumably at his office at the brokerage firm, but who could be sure. And apparently Tiffany didn’t care.

  But Liz realized that she was jealous of her sister. Besides having the life she wanted, Tiffany had only worked for five years—as a fast-living flight attendant, which is where she had met Jim. Liz, on the other hand, had been relegated to curatorial assistant in the entomology department of the natural history museum’s basement for the last fifteen years. But she was honest enough to know she was justifying. She did want to marry and have kids. That had been her dream all of her life. A dream that had eluded her so far, and time was running out. She’d always thought she would do anything to make that dream come true, so why was she resisting their suggestions? They were only trying to help her get what she wanted.

  “The media is full of airbrushed women. Today’s men are as demanding as women. They want perfection!” Tiffany went on knowingly.

  “Why would I want a guy who demands a perfect woman?”

  “Because that’s the only kind there are?” Marti laughed, and everyone but Liz joined in.

  That led to another serious silence, everyone but Liz shaking their head in agreement, followed by a chorus of pitying looks in Liz’ direction.

  Phyllis, the long-suffering one in this group, took Liz’s hands in hers and said as if she were talking to one of the kids in the daycare she ran, or to a mental defective, “You have to play it the way they want to play it, Liz. It’s pay for play. Once you’ve got the guy, the kids, the house, car, boat, fabulous clothes and vacations and more, if you get bored, you can let your hair down. By then you’ll be tired of him and the divorce won’t matter because you’ll get half of what he earns anyway and really, that’s the whole point in playing the game, get the guy with the most dough.”

  “That sounds incredibly cynical,” Liz weakly told her twice-divorced cousin.

  “That sounds realistic,” Tiffany said. “There are a million women out there. Three for every guy. It’s a box of chocolates and you want them to pick you so you have to be the fanciest, most intriguing truffle in the box.”

  “Are you Forest Gumping me?”

  “Whatever it takes!”

  They all nodded, even Marti—her close girlfriend since high school—and Liz felt herself cave.

  §

  Marti accompanied her to the dermatologist’s office. The wizened man with huge dark eyes behind Coke-bottle glasses was not at all like the Nip/Tuck actors. Sharp-featured with mud-colored corkscrew hair, olive-complexioned, zero lips to speak of and tiny ears, a face a lower-life-form might admire. He moved furtively, as if he had ADD. She wondered why, if he was such a renowned dermatologist, he didn’t take advantage of his own skills.

  “No good, no good,” Doctor Tod mumbled, examining her skin under a ten-times magnifying glass surrounded by bright LED light that was attached to the reclining clinic chair positioned to nearly prone.

  Besides those few words, he only made sounds, like soft moans followed by clicks at the end, as if he was in pain. His breath wasn’t the greatest, and Liz held hers.

  He poked and prodded and stretched the skin on her face with his fingers and instruments, moaning and clicking softly all the while.

  Marti, who had insisted on coming into the exam room to hold Liz’s hands, said, “She’s not too far gone, is she?”

  To which Doctor Doom, as Liz was now thinking of the man, moaned and clicked.

  Marti patted her hand but Liz couldn’t even feel it, she was so stressed with worry.

  Finally, Dr. Tod diagnosed, “Damaged!” in a tone that conveyed blame. His accent was vaguely New England with a Germanic twist, and she began to wonder about his history. He was such an odd duck, like something out of a Grimm’s fairytale. “Exposed!” he suddenly snapped, gesturing wildly at her face.

  Liz assumed he meant to sunshine. “I, well, a bit, but I wore sunscreen as a child. Mom always made us wear it.”

  When he said nothing, she added, “The high SPF type.”

  He scowled, thin lips turning down, and mumbled disdainfully a word that sounded like ‘sun’ or ‘shun’ or something she couldn’t make out.

  “What can you do for her?” Marti asked nervously, as if Liz had gotten a diagnosis of ‘terminal’.

  “Surgery!” he said unequivocally. “New face.” The last tinged with repugnance.

  “No!” Liz shook her head. “Not happening!”

  A deeper scowl from Dr. Doom, who looked as if he were about to throw up his hands and order her to “Get out!”

  “She’s afraid of the knife,” Marti supplied.

  That wasn’t strictly true. Liz had undergone dental surgery once to remove two impacted wisdom teeth. She’d recovered quickly and painlessly. And while she had no desire to repeat the experience, she didn’t feel fear so much as the logical reaction: why do something so extreme? What’s the point? But she did appreciate her friend going to bat for her.

  “You mentioned Botox,” she said to Marti, who looked hopefully to Dr. Tod.

  He gave a quick nod, turning his back on them in dismissal.

  “Fills?” Marti asked the back.

  He emitted one of those moaning/clicking sounds.

  “You need the works,” Marti whispered to Liz on their way out of the examination room. “You should have plastic surgery.”

  “Don’t even go there, Marti. I’ll do the rest, but not that.”

  An appointment was arranged for the first of what would turn out to be many regular visits over many months for a variety of treatments, all administered by the strange Dr. Tod who, with the passing of time, in Liz’s eyes, had grown a tad less grotesque, not that he was friendlier than the day she’d met him.

  She often wondered if it was the intimacy of the procedures he did on her face that changed her perception of him. He had two assistants who performed facials and other minor treatments on patients, but he always worked on Liz himself. She found that oddly comforting. Or maybe he just felt she needed so much help he couldn’t trust anyone else to get it right.

  Marti had come with her to the first two appointments, after which Liz was on her own. The peculiar man usually eyed her as if she was a bug pinned to a board. Being in his presence made her shudder at times, especially at the beginning, but the procedures were somewhat invasive and she felt that was likely the underpinnings of her fear.

  But oddly, after one year of twice a month visits, she realized she did look better and her skin appeared almost new; the sun damage, the acne scars, the rosacea, the premature wrinkles that had become permanent, all of it had vanished. She also felt more comfortable in his presence. He never said hello, just nodded, waved at the gown to cover her clothes and at the chair. He still said little more than “head,” with a gesture to turn one way or the other, but somehow he didn’t seem as frightening as before.

  She told Marti this over coffee at their favorite cafe.

  “It’s not so bad. I mean, he gives me a shot of something right away, to calm me down, and that really helps. It’s as if I daydream and only wake up at the end. I never even feel the needles. The fills, well, I don’t feel them in his office, but later I do, for a day or so.”

  “Yeah, it’s a little like having rubber under the skin,” Marti agreed. “I always feel as if I’m wearing a mask on the inside of my face.”

  “Ugh!”

  “You look great, though. I mean, twenty years younger! More. My god, I should go to him myself!”

  “I wouldn’t say twenty. Maybe ten.”

  “No, at least twenty.”
r />   “Well, I’ve gained a little weight. Maybe ten pounds. Can you tell?”

  “Yes. Looks more like twenty.”

  “Marti, can you be other than honest for once? Jeez. Maybe closer to twenty. Okay, maybe twenty-five!”

  “Well, it doesn’t look bad on you.”

  “You told me a year ago to lose ten pounds!”

  “That was then. The face makes all the difference. So moon-like, vibrant. Your skin looks so… healthy! You’re like a different person. You know, I hardly recognize you at times. It really is as if you’ve got an entirely new face.”

  They paused as the waiter brought their coffees.

  “But you’re more comfortable with him?” Marti said, opening a packet of sugar substitute and stirring it into her single-shot espresso.

  “Yes, I am. He’s not really friendly, but I appreciate his professionalism.”

  “You should marry him!”

  Liz burned her lip on her latte. “What? Are you out of your mind?”

  “He’s a doctor. You’d have everything you’ve ever dreamed of. A husband, kids, a house. Financial security.”

  “But I’m not attracted to him!”

  “You just said you’re comfy with him.”

  “Comfortable. In a patient/doctor sense.”

  “Well, you’ve spent more time with him than any other man this last year.”

  Liz knew that was true. Despite all the treatments—and she did look much younger—she hadn’t had a date since beginning with Dr. Tod. Of course, she hadn’t had a date for half a decade before that either.

  To get her friend off the subject, Liz said dismissively, “Marti, I’m sure he’s married, so that’s that.”

  “Don’t be silly, Liz. Besides, I looked him up in The American Academy of Dermatology. There’s not a lot of info, but he’s single, and from meeting him, I didn’t see any indications he’s gay. You’re pushing forty. Go after him!”

  Liz was appalled. The idea of a romance with Dr. Doom was absurd. But she put an end to it by saying, “Well, I wouldn’t know how, even if I was interested, which I’m not.”

  “Liz, you’re so funny! Just be your sweet self. I’m certain he’s noticed you by now.”

  Liz wasn’t so sure of that. He was the most aloof man she’d ever encountered. If she’d seen him disembark from a space ship, she wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Look, here’s what you do…” Marti rattled off a list of ways to flirt: “Smile. Make eye contact and hold it. Flip your hair around and play with your jewelry—”

  “Oh, that’s ridiculous!”

  “Trust me, Liz, men like that, they really do. And it’s a signal. And you’ve got to make sure you run into him outside the office.”

  “How would I do that?”

  “Hide outside and follow him.”

  “Liz, that’s stalking!”

  “That’s planning. And while we’re at it, make sure you dress well. You should always look good.”

  Liz groaned. “This is sooooo wrong—”

  “Smile a lot. Talk to him—”

  “He doesn’t say much, you know that, just that weirdness that comes out of his mouth and—”

  “And make sure you touch him.”

  “What? That’s assault!”

  “Oh, Liz, I mean just touch his arm or something as you say ‘Thank you!’ Men read that as she wants me! And don’t forget to smile. It’s all pheromones. You put them out, he reacts.”

  “I’m getting a headache,” Liz said. Now she was even more appalled. Had women always done this to get a man? No wonder she was single! What had the world come to?

  As if reading her mind, Marti said, “Women have always used tricks like this. Once he’s interested, well, marriage is right around the corner.”

  She paused and looked seriously at Liz. “You, my friend, would be a great candidate for an arranged marriage. Maybe you should visit a professional matchmaker?” Without missing a beat, Marti grinned, “In fact, I’m going to arrange things.”

  A little of the latte Liz held spilled onto the table. “What? No. No! Don’t do that, I—”

  “I’ll have a small dinner party, you and Dr. Toddy, Tiffany and Jim, me and… well, I’ll find someone.”

  “Marti, please, don’t—”

  Marti grabbed her free hand and said, “Lizzy, give it a chance, okay? See the man in a social setting, outside work. He’s probably a very nice guy when he drops the professionalism. Cut him some slack.”

  A week later Liz reluctantly showed up at Marti’s apartment, tightly clutching the neck of a bottle of Chardonnay. Tiffany and Jim had already arrived, and Marti’s gay friend Andy was there, but no Dr. Tod.

  Fear knotting her stomach, Liz rushed to the kitchen to chill the wine in the refrigerator and try to calm down, but Marti followed her.

  “Don’t worry, he’ll be here,” Marti whispered, hugging Liz.

  “I’m not worried, I’m relieved he’s not here.”

  Suddenly the doorbell rang. “See?” Marti said, giving her another small hug and a wink, and went to answer.

  Liz hugged herself and chewed the lipstick off her lower lip. This was such a very bad idea. Dr. Tod was not her type at all, although Marti, Tiffany and Phyllis—even her mother when Liz had petitioned her—had all assured her she had no type. “Bottom line,” Phyllis said, “you can grow to love any man. At least for a while.” But Liz didn’t think she could ever love Dr. Tod—what the hell was his first name?

  She heard Marti introducing him to everyone, then she heard her say, “Oh, come with me. Liz is in the kitchen.”

  Good God! Liz thought. Panicked, she glanced around, even though she knew there was only one door, no other exit.

  Dr. Tod appeared in that doorway behind Marti, at least a head shorter than her friend, who was the same height as Liz. He stood as if frozen to the spot and just stared at her while Marti chatted away. Maybe he didn’t know I’d be here, Liz thought, and this is as awkward and embarrassing and such an obvious setup to him as it is to me.

  “Hello, Dr. Tod,” she finally stammered, trying to be gracious.

  He gave a perfunctory nod.

  “I’ll be right back, you two!” Marti chirped, leaving them alone in the kitchen.

  Panic rose tsunami-like within her, and Liz side-stepped it and plunged into pseudo-hostess mode. She convinced herself that he was uncomfortable. Even if he wasn’t, she was.

  “It was nice of you to accept Marti’s invitation.”

  His eyes examined her face as they did in the treatment room, the look a bit more pleasant than any she’d seen him provide before. He’s assessing his work, she thought, disappointed. Even though she wasn’t interested in him, still, she had feelings and wanted to be seen as an attractive woman, a desirable person, not as a clinical study. It made her a bit gruff.

  “Would you like some wine?” she asked, turning abruptly to the fridge and retrieving the still-warm white wine.

  When he didn’t answer, she found a corkscrew in the kitchen-implement’s drawer and opened the bottle, reached for a glass and then, on impulse, took a second glass and poured wine into both. She picked up the glasses, turned and handed one to him. At first he didn’t take it, as if he didn’t know what to do with it, but then he reached out and their fingers brushed. His were cool. She sipped the wine from her glass and he watched her as if she were enacting a ritual, which he then imitated.

  Liz took a very large swallow of wine and he imitated that as well. Then she finished off the glass, and, after he’s done the same, she burst out laughing.

  “Dr. Tod, you’re a strange man,” she said, pouring them both more wine.

  “There you are!” Tiffany chirped, entering the kitchen. “Just grabbing the Riesling,” she sang, squiggling her way between them to the fridge. “Jim’s favorite. Then I’ll leave you two alone.”

  “We’re just heading in to the living room,” Liz said, moving past Tiffany and, maybe the wine was getting to he
r, grabbing Dr. Tod by the hand and pulling him along.

  They sat on one of the two couches across from Marti and Andy. Tiffany and Jim had the loveseat. The cream-colored seating surrounded the large glass-and-brass coffee table. The rest of the evening was sometimes pleasant, sometimes awkward chit-chat but, other than that, uneventful. Everyone talked and laughed and joked and ate, everyone but Dr. Tod. He barely responded to the questions they asked, trying to draw him out. He did, though, drink more wine. Liz realized that he was still imitating her, at least with drinking, and she made sure to ply herself with enough vin to feel no pain, and hoped Dr. Toddy, as Marti called him, was doing the same.

  Tiffany and Jim escaped after dinner with the excuse to “see about the kids”. Marti’s friend Andy departed. Marti gave Liz a look, yawned and finally said, “I should get my beauty sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day at the office.”

  Liz stood immediately and again Dr. Tod imitated her. He followed her to the door and after Liz and Marti said goodbye and Marti thanked Dr. Tod for coming and he only nodded, Liz led him downstairs.

  There were only two cars left in the visitors’ parking lot. The green Toyota was hers, the metallic brown Lexus must be his. They got to the Lexus first.

  “Well, it’s been a pleasure seeing you outside your office,” she said with a smile, flipping her hair, wondering if using the word pleasure was laying it on too thick. A small moan and click escaped his lips. He scanned her face again and she imagined he was looking for imperfections. As she turned toward her car, slightly off balance from all the wine, suddenly Liz felt something pinch her neck. Instantly, she became dizzy and stumbled. “What the…?” The parking lot came up to meet her.

  §

  When Liz woke, she had no idea where she was. Not her apartment, that was for sure. Not even a house. More like a medical clinic, a white-walled, stainless steel room devoid of color. She lay on a gurney and soon pulled herself to a seated position, too fast; her head swam.

  Once she’d gained control of her brain, she glanced around. This looked like an operating room! Many pieces of equipment were familiar and replicated those in Dr. Tod’s office. She was dressed in only a hospital gown the color of dirt.