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Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992)

Page 54

by David G. Hartwell (Ed. )


  Remember what you told that girl the other night,

  remember what you wanted her to do that got her so

  upset?”

  “ If you don’t get the hell out of here— ”

  “That’s what she said too, remember? And then she

  said she wished she had never met you. And that was the

  line, wasn’t it, that gave you the inspiration for our

  fictionalized adventure. Poor Nathan never had the

  chance you had. Oh yes, very fancy rigmarole with the

  enchanted trousers. Blame it all on some old bitch and

  her dead husband. Very realistic, I’m sure. When the real

  reason— ”

  “Get out of here!” he yelled. But he calmed down

  somewhat when he saw that ferocity in itself had no

  effect on me.

  “What did you expect from that girl? You did tell her

  that you wanted to embrace, what was it? Oh yes, a

  headless woman. A headless woman, for heaven’s sake,

  that’s asking a lot. And you did want her to make herself

  look like one, at least for a little while. Well, I’ve got the

  Notes on the Writing o f Horror: A Story

  431

  answer to your prayers. How’s this for headless?” I said,

  holding up the head from behind my back.

  He didn’t make a sound, though his two eyes screamed

  a thousand times louder than any single mouth. 1 tossed

  the long-haired and bloody noggin in his lap, but he

  threw the bedcovers over it and frantically pushed the

  whole business onto the floor with his feet.

  “The rest of her is in the bathtub. Go see, if you want.

  I’ll wait.”

  He didn’t make a move or say a word for quite a few

  moments. But when he finally did speak, each syllable

  came out so calm and smooth, so free of the vibrations of

  fear, that I have to say it shook me up a bit.

  “Whooo are you?” he asked as if he already knew.

  “Do you really need to have a name, and would it even

  do any good? Should we call that disengaged head down

  there Laura or Loma, or just plain Desiderata? And

  what, in heaven’s name, should I call you— Norman or

  Nathan, Harold or Gerald?”

  “I thought so,” he said disgustedly. Then he began to

  speak in an eerily rational voice, but very rapidly. He did

  not even seem to be talking to anyone in particular.

  “Since the thing to which I am speaking,” he said, “since

  this thing knows what only I could know, and since it

  tells me what only I could tell myself, I must therefore be

  completely alone in this room, or perhaps even dreaming. Yes, dreaming. Otherwise the diagnosis is insanity.

  Very true. Profoundly certain. Go away now, Mr. Madness. Go away, Dr. Dream. You made your point, now let me sleep. I’m through with you.”

  Then he lay his head down on the pillow and closed his

  eyes.

  “Norman,” I said. “Do you always go to bed with your

  trousers on?”

  He opened his eyes and now noticed what he had been

  too deranged to notice before. He sat up again.

  “Very good, Mr. Madness. These look like the real

  432

  Thomas Ligotti

  thing. But that’s not possible since Laura still has them,

  sorry about that. Funny, they won’t come off. The

  imaginary zipper must be stuck. Gee, I guess I’m in

  trouble now. I’m a dead man if there ever was one, hoo.

  Always make sure you know what you’re buying, that’s

  what I say. Heaven help me, please. You never know

  what you might be getting into. Come off, damn you!

  Oh, what grief. Well, so when do I start to rot, Mr.

  Madness? Are you still there? What happened to the

  lights?”

  The lights had gone out in the room and everything

  glowed with a bluish luminescence. Lightning began

  Sashing outside the bedroom window, and thunder

  resounded through a rainless night. The moon shone

  through an opening in the clouds, a blood-red moon only

  the damned and the dead can see.

  “Rot your way back to us, you freak of creation. Rot

  your way out of this world. Come home to a pain so great

  that it is bliss itself. You were bom to be bones not flesh.

  Rot your way free of that skin of mere skin.”

  “Is this really happening to me? I mean, I’m doing my

  best, sir. It isn’t easy, not at all. Horrible electricity down

  there. Horrible. Am I bathed in magic acid or something? Oh, it hurts, my love. Ah, ah, ah. It hurts so much.

  Never let it end. If I have to be like this, then never let me

  wake up, Dr. Dream. Can you do that, at least?”

  I could feel my bony wings rising out of my back and

  saw them spread gloriously in the blue mirror before me.

  My eyes were now jewels, hard and radiant. My jaws

  were a cavern of dripping silver and through my veins

  ran rivers of putrescent gold. He was writhing on the bed

  like a wounded insect, making sounds like nothing in

  human memory. I swept him up and wrapped my sticky

  arms again and again around his trembling body. He was

  laughing like a child, the child of another world. And a

  great wrong was about to be rectified.

  I signaled the windows to open onto the night, and,

  very slowly, they did. His infant’s laughter had now

  Notes on the Writing o f Horror: A Story

  433

  turned to tears, but they would soon run dry, I knew this.

  At last we would be free of the earth. The windows

  opened wide over the city below and the profound

  blackness above welcomed us.

  I had never tried this before. But when the time came,

  I found it all so easy.

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  David G. Hartwell

  A respected editor and scholar of

  genre fiction, David G. Hartwell is the

  editor of the critically-acclaimed, World

  Fantasy Award-winning horror anthology

  T h e D a r k D e s c e n t, which was a selection

  of the Book of the Month Club and the

  Quality Paperback Book Club.

  H a rtw e ll is the a u th o r of A g e o f

  W o n d e r s , a study of the science fiction

  field, and the publisher of T h e N e w Y o rk

  R e v i e w o f S c i e n c e F ic tio n , a journal of

  criticism and literary analysis.

  For the past two years, Hartwell has

  taught writing at Harvard University. He

  has also ta u g h t at the p re s tig io u s

  C la rio n

  S cie n ce

  F ic tio n

  W rite rs

  Workshop. David Hartwell holds a doctorate in com parative lite ra tu re from

  C o lu m b ia U n ive rsity. He live s in

  Pleasantville, New York.

  “A must-read, must-own book.”

  — R obert Bloch

  VISIONS OF FEAR

  “ Visions of Fear provides the reader with many

  hours of shivery pleasure. An impressive anthology. ”

  — Jack Sullivan,

  editor of The Penguin Encyclopedia

  of Horror and the Supernatural

  “Clive Barker’s ‘ In the Hills, the Cities,' in which

  the populations of twin Yugoslavian towns bind

  themselves to each other to create giant warriors

  who engage in ritual combat every decade, has

  an eerie, timely relevance.”

  — Publishers Weekly

  Open Front Cover to See a

  Complete List of Contributors

  “Visions of Fear [is] superb, with some rare

  treasures that make it a must. Deserve[s] to

  become [a] classic.”

  — Ramsey Campbell

  A T om D oherty A s so c ia tes, In c . Book

  Printed in the U.S.A.

 

 

 


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