Masques IV

by J N Williamson

  She dressed, swallowed an aspirin. It was going to be one of those days.

  Downstairs she retrieved the newspaper off the porch steps, sat down at the table to enjoy her first cup of hot tea for the day. The dining room windows faced onto the house under renovation, and she could see the crew crawling like immense ants over the grey roof.

  Before she could get irritated, she got up and pulled the windows down. The noise dimmed a little, but didn’t go away.

  A few minutes later Tommy came downstairs. “Mornin’,” he said, as he bent over to kiss her. He smelled of some lemony aftershave, and she smiled.

  “Sleep well?” she asked.

  “As always,” he said, going into the kitchen. “You?”

  She shrugged.

  “Woke up again, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe you need some sort of sleeping pill, something over the counter.”

  She sloshed her tea around in the mug. “I think I’ve tried just about every one out there. They work for the first night or two, you know, and then after that I keep waking up. In fact, I think they keep me awake.”

  “Well,” Tommy said, sliding into the chair opposite her and dipping his spoon into his bowl of cereal, “maybe you should go to see a—”

  “A therapist?” Faye asked, her voice a slightly sarcastic.

  “Let me finish, okay? I was going to say a hypnotist.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “A guy at the office went to one—I could probably get the name, if you want—and he quit smoking. He used to smoke two-three packs a day.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “Get the name, if it’s no bother. I think that might be good. Sure is worth a try, I guess.”

  “Maybe you can take a nap today.”

  “Not with that going on,” she pointed with her chin toward the windows.

  “Isn’t it kind of warm? Do you really want the windows closed, Faye?”

  “It cuts down on the racket.”

  He gave her That Look—the expression she always hated, and always felt held more than a little condescension. “Hon, you’ve really got to do something about that. Face it, we live in a noisy world, and it’s not going to get any quieter.” He took his bowl out to the kitchen and ran water in it.

  She made a face at his back, then looked down at her mug. She didn’t know why she did that, except that she always suspected that he really didn’t understand how horrible it was for her. How bad the level of noise could get.

  “It would be much more quiet if we lived in the country,” she said.

  “Hon, don’t start on that again. I told you that with the cost of property, we just can’t afford it. At least right now. If one of us gets a raise, maybe we can sock the extra dough away. Until then you’ll just have to put up with a boisterous town. At least it’s not the city.”

  She said nothing.

  “See you.” He kissed her again, picked up his jacket and a few minutes later she heard him chatting with the workmen. A few minutes later the car started up. It popped and sputtered; the engine needed tuning.

  Faye gritted her teeth.

  With mug in hand, she wandered into the living room and draped herself across the easy chair and turned on the tv. She didn’t normally watch television in the daytime, but she was curious to see what was on at this hour. An earnest-looking host talking about incest, and some quiz show with lots of buzzers and flashing lights, a nature show about koalas, a couple of music stations, the weather channel, CNN, others. She flipped through the stations, then again as if expecting to find something else, then finally turned the tv off. Too much noise.

  From one of the houses across the street she heard the faint beat of rock music. Something by some heavy metal group.

  Swell.

  A car went by, the windows rolled down, a Bach concerto blasting out.

  Not even the classics were sacred, she thought with a faint smile.

  Enough of this. Faye stood, looked around the room. So, what was she going to do? Well, she could go to the mall, but that meant a thirty-minute drive, crowds and that maddening piped-in music that followed her everywhere. Couldn’t people survive without having to listen to something every minute?

  The mall was definitely out. The grocery store was not. Once there, she claimed a cart and started up and down the aisles.

  The p.a. system played songs from the late ’60s, all homogenized into bland music. The system crackled and a man’s voice announced a special today on lean ground beef. He droned on about the different uses for ground beef. Finally, the ad ended, and the music—the Beaties’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” one of her favorites—came on in mid-tune.

  That irritated her even more, but she wasn’t sure which was more offensive—the lackluster renditions of the music or just the plain fact that there was music. She didn’t know why she hated noise so much; from her early childhood on she had been particularly noise-sensitive, at least that’s what her mother had called it. Faye had always disliked loud voices and sounds, and had always crawled into her parents’ large walk-in closet when thunder boomed outside. She could hear the whine of air conditioning as she walked into department stores when no one else could. Once she had begun crying as a small airplane circled over their house. Her father had sworn it was simply a stage that she would outgrow; only she hadn’t.

  It hadn’t gotten better with age; it had grown worse, much worse.

  Most of the time she had an uneasy truce with her sensitivity. Then there were the other times . . . days like today.

  Somewhere, maybe a few rows over, a young child began crying. Faye waited for the child to stop, but it didn’t; it was building to an enthusiastic crescendo. It was a wonder those small lungs didn’t give out. Her hands clenched on the cart handle. She braked before the paper products and tossed in paper towels.

  The wailing grew louder. The high-pitched voice rose and fell in a pathetic undulation. The mother’s voice was shrill and she was telling her child that the child really shouldn’t cry.

  Faye shook her head in disgust. The mother ought to just say no, and then bop the kid on the butt once or twice. That would stop the whining. God knows, it had happened enough to her. Of course, she hadn’t been prone to pitching temper tantrums, either. That wasn’t allowed in her family.

  A gentle throbbing began in her temple; her headache was returning.

  Faye pushed her cart toward the end of the aisle, trying to get away from the noise. But it followed her wherever she went.

  She hurried through the produce section, lobbed lettuce and radishes and spinach into the basket. She would surprise Tommy with a really big salad. Somewhere else in the store another child began crying, picking up the refrain of the first. Then a third started whimpering.

  When she got to the check-out stand, Faye flung her items onto the belt as quickly as possible and watched the checker ring them up one by one.

  “How can you stand to work with all this noise? These kids must drive you crazy.”

  The checker, a woman with a big black mole on her chin, shook her head. “Don’t hear it after a while. It just sort of blends together pretty soon.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. That’s twenty-three fifty. You should have been here when they were remodeling the store. All that hammering and drilling day in, day out—it was terrible.”

  Faye shuddered, drove home. The workers were still next door; she had entertained some vague hope that they might have called it quits. Right.

  After she had taken several more aspirin, she wandered into the living room. She was going to read. She should do a little housework, but she knew she couldn’t take the howling of the vacuum cleaner. She read for a while and only gradually became aware of another noise, a clanging and banging. She glanced out the window and saw the garbage men. Why, she wondered, when the garbage cans were plastic now, did these guys have to make all this noise? The truck moved slowly down the street, th
e noise finally receding.

  It was noisy at the office, too, where she worked as staff writer. Her job was to translate computer talk into people talk, and the constant clatter of printers and phones and people talking, chairs squeaking, doors being slammed grated. Some days she wondered how anyone—how she—could take it. But no one complained about the noise, and she figured she was just being sensitive.

  Too damned sensitive for her own good—wasn’t that what Dad always said?

  At lunch she fixed a simple cheese sandwich and had a soda, and while she was sitting at the dining room table still reading, she heard a high-pitched whining. Like a buzzsaw, only she knew that sound very well. Even over the sound of hammering and the shouts of the workmen, she could hear that grating noise, though.

  She stepped out onto the front porch; the sound grew louder.

  Something bright flashed along the street. The whining came from it.

  It turned out to be one of those remote control cars, and she watched as a man with his young son played with the toy. Around it went, then up and down in front of her house. It was nice that he was with his son, she thought, but why couldn’t they have found something silent, like a kite, to play with?

  She found herself gritting her teeth, forced herself to relax, went back in and closed the front door and windows facing that direction.

  Not good enough, but the best she could do.

  She read until the kids came home from school, then, her finger marking her place in the book, she looked out the window and watched as the junior high kids cut across her lawn. They were yelling to one another, and one of them held a large silver radio that blasted out some loud song with a fast beat. They cursed at each other and pushed each other around, and shouted, even though they were standing only a few feet away from each other.

  Didn’t kids speak in civil tones any more? In hushed tones? she wondered.

  It had always been hard to deal with, this noise sensitivity. She’d tried ear plugs years before, but they really hadn’t helped. She tried ignoring the sounds, but couldn’t concentrate fully.

  Maybe the hypnotist Tommy had mentioned that morning would help, though; she hoped so. All these noises were driving her crazy.

  It didn’t help that Tommy snored so loudly sometimes at night that she woke up and was unable to go back to sleep until she came downstairs and camped out on the sofa. Even then, she’d be able to hear the snoring faintly, but at least it no longer kept her awake.

  And he always kept the television volume much too high, just like her father had. Her father had been slightly deaf, though; Tommy was young yet. Maybe she would suggest that he have his hearing checked out.

  She knew hers didn’t need it.

  At least, she thought, the boy and his father and the awful toy had gone off. Maybe the thing was broken; that would be good news.

  Her mother had been the type to slam drawers and doors. If she was mad, slam went a dresser drawer. Or the door to the oven. Or the backdoor. With each jar, Faye had jumped. She was always glad that she came from a family of three rather than thirteen.

  After a while she heard the ticking of the clock in the hallway. Tommy had bought that for their anniversary. With each swing of the brass pendulum there was a resonant echo, like the striking of a padded hammer on wood. Almost a muffled sound. Not muffled enough.

  The refrigerator went on. The appliance needed work, and for years it had made cooing noises, like a dove. Sometimes at night as she lay in bed, trying to sleep, she could hear that persistent cooing.

  Water dripped from the kitchen faucet. Drop by drop. She would have to remind Tommy again this weekend to get a new washer for the faucet. They were wasting too much water.

  Her headache was back, and growing worse. It was centered over one eye and throbbed. She bet if she put her fingers on that spot she’d feel it pulsating. She got up and took some more aspirin, took a deep breath, and told herself to relax.

  Somewhere, on the other side of the street, a phone rang and a loud voice answered it, and she listened to a conversation she didn’t want to hear.

  Kids squealed as they played in their front yards.

  Bluejays squawked at each other in the mulberry tree outside her window. A lawn mower growled two houses down.

  Tommy really was pretty good about all of this, she told herself. She tried not to complain about the noise, because he didn’t understand. No one—not even her closest friends—did, because none of them could hear as well as she could. They all complained about varying hearing loss, and she always thought that they were the lucky ones, that she was the cursed one.

  A jet shrieked overhead.

  You’re too sensitive, her father always grumbled, as if it were really something she could control.

  The neighbor next door began working on the sports car he never drove. She heard the racing engine, a grinding of gears, the beeping of the horn.

  Another phone shrilled.

  It was just that she never could seem to get away from the noise. It was always badgering her, assaulting her. She hated it.

  A television blared.

  Too sensitive.

  A piano—someone playing “Heart and Soul” over and over and over.

  The pulsating pain returned.

  An ambulance, or perhaps it was a police car, raced down the next block out, the wailing siren rising and falling, rising and falling.

  Another lawn mower roared into life, while the kid and his father returned with the remote control car.

  Too damned sensitive . . .

  The refrigerator hummed again, while the furnace rumbled on.

  Her phone rang. And rang, and rang, and rang, and still she sat on the couch, and listened to all the noises of the house and her neighborhood.

  Tommy parked the car in the driveway, waved to old Mr. Miller who was just finishing clipping his hedges two doors down. He went into the house.

  “Faye, hi, Pm home.” He heard nothing but the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. He listened for running water, thinking she might be taking a bath, but he didn’t hear it. Maybe she was out back.

  “Faye?” This time louder.

  Still no answer.

  He heard something in the kitchen then, and he realized she was out there, probably making dinner.

  He stopped on the threshold of the kitchen. “Hi, hon, how are you?”

  She stood at the counter with her back to him. She was cutting up vegetables for a salad.

  “Hon?” Was this a game, he thought with a sly smile? Then: was she mad at him for some reason and ignoring him?

  He stepped closer.

  On the counter, not far from the salad bowl, he saw an icepick, and a smear of something red on the countertop.

  “Honey, I got the name of the hypnotist; it’s some guy who just—” he began, then stopped when Faye turned around and he saw the blood trickling from her ears.

  Whispers of the Unrepentant

  t. Winter-Damon

  The bad news is, I don’t know either what the lower-case “t.” stands for.

  What I know is that he’s a “he,” his gracious and attractive wife is named Diane, they reside in Tucson, Arizona, he’s affable and has a mustache, and his work has appeared in over 200 magazines or anthologies in seven countries. I also know the other six are England, Canada, Australia, N. Wales, France, and West Germany.

  And that he is a poet, reviewer, novelist, short-fiction writer and artist whose time under limelight is due. (We’re into the good news now.) The assertion is given substance by work in The Year’s Best Horror (twice; in XVI and XVII), Fantasy Tales, Fear, Deathrealm, Midnight Graffiti, Eldritch Tales, Grue, and something intriguing entitled Semiotext ESF Anthology. Winter-Damon was pleased to say it contained “nearly the entire cast of the Cyberpunk movement,” citing J. G. Ballard, Robert Sheckley, William Burroughs, Philip Jose Farmer, and William Gibson.

  The rest of the good news about this Rhysling and Bram Stoker nominee and Sm
all Press Writers and Artists Organization Poet of the Year is that his new work is up next.

  I.

  I am bored with this grey, untextured tapestry—

  These chafing shackles of restrained banality,

  Unleavened wafers,

  Tepid water,

  Saltless meat . . .

  Your perfumes no longer seem so sweet,

  Fire without warmth,

  Frost without chill . . .

  Your laughter is silent, the strains of your music still.

  I AM THE HELLRAKE . . .

  I am the footsteps in the darkness

  I crave—

  To shed the fabric and stain it red;

  These moral chains to smash and rend;

  To glutton the blue and mouldy bread;

  To swill the Dark Gods’ crimson wine;

  To gorge on savory, dripping flesh.

  My pulse throbs—

  To the coffin’s wild, necrotic scent,

  To the warm and fragrant musk of blood;

  Hell’s fires fill me with their molten flame;

  Arctic ecstasy the stolen corpse cold kiss.

  Demons’ laughter echoes in the wind.

  The dirge rapture sets my head awhirl.

  The choirs of The Damned: quicksilver bliss . . .

  I AM THE HELLRAKE . . .

  I am the footsteps in the darkness

  II.

  Sister Drusilla, dearest of the three—

  Shall we wash our hands in blood while you sit upon my

  knee?

  I AM THE HELLRAKE . . .

  My name the epithet for lust-inflicted pain—

  That fixation of disgust soon waxes pleasurable as cherished

  vices wane . . .

  I am the footsteps in the darkness

  Whitechapel five? or seven? harlots wedded to my blade—

  Lawyer? surgeon? jew? or prince? What a novel masquerade!

  I AM THE HELLRAKE . . .

  Death to pigs! Acid family, blind carnage yet to wreak—

  Apocalypse in black and white the vision that I seek . . .