Black Horse and Other Strange Stories

by Wyckoff, Jason A.

  BLACK HORSE

  and Other Strange Stories

  JASON A. WYCKOFF

  Tartarus Press

  This edition is published by Tartarus Press, 2012 at

  Coverley House, Carlton-in-Coverdale, Leyburn,

  North Yorkshire, DL8 4AY, UK.

  Black Horse and Other Strange Stories © Jason A. Wyckoff, 2012.

  The publishers would like to thank Jim Rockhill and Richard Dalby

  for their help in the preparation of this volume.

  to Shonda Craig Wyckoff,

  the woman who brings joy to my life

  and to Daniel M. Pinkwater,

  the man who corrupted my youth

  CONTENTS

  The Highwall Horror

  Panorama

  The Walk Home

  Intermediary

  The Night of His Sister’s Engagement

  The Bells, Then the Birds

  A Civil Complaint

  The Mauve Blot

  Black Horse

  Raise Up the Serpent

  The Trucker’s Story

  A Willow Cat in Meadowlark

  Hair and Nails

  Knott’s Letter

  An Uneven Hand

  A Matter of Mirrors

  The Highwall Horror

  The chairmat in the highwall cubicle was better than the one he currently used, so Joe let it lie. He’d have to bring his old chair, but it was in decent shape and comfortable enough. It had a few coffee stains in the seat, but good luck finding one in the office that didn’t. Joe tossed the page-per-day calendar and the white and yellow pages (did anyone use those anymore?) into the blue recycle bin. He took out all the partially used pencils and probably dried-out pens and all the other office supplies in the slide-out drawer and dumped them in the lid of a paper case box. Joe left the box-top in the supply room for Seth to pitch the contents or put them back in the cabinets. He borrowed an aerosol cleanser, grabbed a few paper towels from the bathroom, and soon had himself a nearly-immaculate highwall cubicle ready for habitation.

  Joe Ishler had done intern and grunt work for a few years out of college at smaller architectural firms before landing the job at DKT&T. A fast fourteen years later he’d earned his Project Architect certification; that, along with getting the lead on a small healthcare project, and a recent vacancy, enabled Joe to receive the assignment to a highwall cubicle. Joe didn’t think to initiate the move as an upgrade befitting his station; instead, he’d read an online article that preached a dogma of self-actualisation and perpetual forward movement in the corporate world that struck a chord with him, and he was certainly glad afterward that that inspiration had prompted him to make the request. So Joe gathered up his drawings and his reference books and his project binders (as the IT department moved and reinstalled his computer) and migrated into the highwall cubicle recently abandoned by Jerry Samples.

  Joe was unclear on the circumstances surrounding Jerry’s departure from the company. He knew it happened suddenly, and that it came concurrently with Jerry’s resignation. There was surprise that someone who’d been with the company for more than ten years would leave so abruptly, but it was not without precedent. Sometimes a negotiation for a new job suddenly came together, and the headhunted employee, secure in his future and needed immediately by his new employer, would make the leap in an instant. And, of course, layoffs were never anything but abrupt, so that sudden syncopation of shifting personnel was easily subsumed within the greater rhythm of office life.

  When Joe returned the aerosol cleanser to the supply room, he wondered aloud how someone who had departed so suddenly had left so little behind.

  ‘Oh, no,’ answered Seth, ‘he left everything behind. They had me put all his papers into archive boxes, but I can’t get anybody from architectural to go through them so I can send them out. I’m gonna have to put them out of the way somewhere until someone gets around to it. Probably they’ll just sit in your old cubicle for awhile.’

  Joe took an hour situating his belongings into the new cubicle, setting the binders and the reference books on the shelf, laying out his papers and putting his office supplies in the slide-out drawer. He tacked four t-pins into the grey fabric mesh of the cubicle wall and hung, side-by-side and completely level, his diploma, his professional certification, and the photo of him and his wife and two girls at Disneyland; he hung his North American wildlife wall calendar open to April and briefly considered the mallards in flight. When Joe felt he had things situated properly, he breathed deeply and allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction before he set to work.

  The DKT&T offices had moved into a converted casket factory (the renovation of which they designed and oversaw) at the forefront of an urban renewal movement some five years previous. Though Joe’s cubicle was one removed from the spread of high and wide windows retained from the original design, the light was ample and diffuse, balanced between the natural and fluorescent, such that every inch of workspace was sufficiently but not starkly lit. Soon, plans in various degrees of development were strewn over his workspace, and though the spread appeared haphazard, Joe knew precisely the position of each and every piece of paper. The first week in the new cubicle passed pleasantly for Joe. Though the new project wasn’t the sort to allow him to flex his creative muscles, he felt nonetheless empowered by his new level of responsibility, and that feeling energised his efforts. Stimulated by his new professional tableau, Joe would often jump up and step once to the side or stand to turn around to find the drawings he needed. A few in the office saw gentle humour in his new dynamism; some of the project managers silently recognised and approved of Joe’s behaviour.

  As the weeks moved forward, Joe settled back to his normal routine, and the brief period of amplified enthusiasm came to an end. The project he managed was a family birthing centre at an U.S. Army base. As such, the overall design emphasis was utilitarian. The single-storey building was supposed to sit unobtrusively next to a brick administrative building erected in the late 1970s. There were no curves, no odd angles, no decorative elements or asymmetries to the exterior design. The interior was divided into an office and several nearly-identical oblong rectangles the dimensions of which were primarily dictated by mechanical and electrical engineering considerations. Joe had suggested a scheme that would allow for several modular elements to admit quick redeployment based on operational capacity; the Army liaison felt them unnecessary. Joe micro-managed the interior decoration to the annoyance of the designer assigned to the project; he tried and failed to secure permission to reproduce certain trademarked cartoon characters in a waiting-room mural. Joe grew frustrated; he found himself continually rallying his energies for perseverance rather than production.

  One day, after dashing off an e-mail approving a change of paper-towel dispensers from the specified manufacturer, as he leaned back in his chair and let out a little sigh, a small movement in Joe’s peripheral vision drew his attention. Joe redirected his gaze and saw something small and black struggling to emerge from between a tiny gap in the grey fibres of fabric covering the cubicle wall. The little thing (some kind of insect, of course, thought Joe) pushed through the weave and clung there, tiny antennae lolling through the air. Joe squinted; he’d first taken it to be an ant (what would an ant be doing inside the cubicle wall? What would anything be doing inside there?), but upon closer inspection he reconsidered. The thing didn’t have a smooth and round carapace like a flea or beetle; it was segmented and ostentatious (thought Joe) in its accoutrements: six or so legs, antennae, mandibles, possibly a pair of rudimentary wings, and some other appendage protruding from the back. Joe found it hard to be sure that he saw any of these featur
es exactly as he apprehended them; the insect was quite small, perhaps only four millimetres long.

  But when it started to move, it moved quickly. It ran down the wall toward the countertop. Joe was worried he’d lose the thing in the shadows beneath; he didn’t want it taking up residence in the boxes there, only to surprise him again at some later date. Joe leaned forward and shot out his right arm, index finger extended. He found his mark with devastating precision, but quickly withdrew his hand with a yelp—a sharp pain like the prick of a sliver of glass met Joe’s finger when he smashed his prey. Instantly, Joe felt a warm, buzzing throb at the tip of his finger. He was surprised an insect so small could mete out such a sting. Joe shook his finger and flicked his wrist. He didn’t see any stinger left in the pad of his finger, and there was no spot of blood. Joe went to the bathroom and washed his hands. He felt unsettled. He tried chuckling at his misfortune, but trying to marginalise the queer experience instead made him dwell upon the strangeness of the event and the creature involved, so Joe decided he should neither worry about it nor indulge himself with self pity but should rather do what he always did when faced with adversity: Get back to work.

  Back in his cubicle, Joe expected to see the crushed smudge of the insect on the cloth, but it did not appear there. Joe guessed that perhaps it had fallen down onto the carpet—certainly it could not have survived; even through the sharp prick of pain, Joe had felt the thing’s body give under his finger. One thing that Joe could clearly make out, though miniscule, was the imperfection in the weave of the cubicle wall that had allowed the insect to come through. There, in amongst all the little overlapping foursquare sutures, was one junction that puckered out like a burst boil.

  Joe had trouble using his finger to type; as he was a hunt-and-peck-style typist, this slowed the progress of his work and made the discomfort at the site of the wound impossible to ignore. Later in the afternoon, Joe noticed that a small, white ring had erupted from the skin on his finger. Joe touched it; expecting the finger to be tender, he was surprised to find that it ached like a strained muscle, and the little white ring was rigid instead of fluid-filled. The aching sensation persisted through the evening and on to the next day; it made it uncomfortable for Joe to curl his index finger, forcing Joe to leave it continually extended. Joe’s wife noticed this odd behaviour and asked Joe if he’d hurt his finger.

  Joe laughed. ‘I stapled it!’ He wasn’t sure why he lied.

  The next morning, the hole in the cubicle wall was noticeably larger. Of course, it was still an extremely small defect, easily ignored by anyone who hadn’t been bitten or stung by an alien insect that had emerged from it. Joe, however, was quite sure that the diameter of the hole and its protuberance were both greater than before. Upon noticing that detail, he instinctively stood up and first looked over his body, then the chair, then the floor and the papers covering his counter-space. Joe failed to see any more of the uninvited guests and hesitantly set to work. Every drawing he moved deliberately, more interested in what might hide in the grooves and between the sheets than the subject matter printed thereon. Joe’s concentration was constantly wavering, his faculties otherwise engaged in peripheral alertness. But even this he didn’t trust, and Joe found himself often looking about, shooting a quick look here, then there, and back again. It was wearying.

  Joe slumped down in his chair. He pulled the fresh cup of coffee up under his nose and took in the pleasantly bitter aroma. He felt the warmth of the mug on his palms with satisfaction. He closed his eyes for a moment.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw two small, black shapes darting along the cubicle wall towards the hole. He sprung up in alarm and added a new stain to the seat of his chair. The two shapes stopped just outside the whole and . . . Joe swore they turned their heads and looked at him. Then they turned their heads towards each other and rubbed their antennae and mandibles together profanely before scurrying as one through the hole in the fabric.

  Joe set his coffee down and went to see Sandy in Human Resources.

  Sandy’s door was open, she was at her desk; she looked up inquiringly at Joe’s knock.

  ‘Hey, I’ve got some kind of insect in my cubicle,’ Joe offered lamely. He felt as though he were about to ask her to come step on a spider for him.

  Sandy raised her eyebrows. ‘Some kind of insect.’

  ‘Ants. I think. They’re very small. I saw one yesterday and two today.’

  ‘Do you keep food at your desk?’

  Joe tried not to be offended; it was a logical question and implied nothing improper on his part, still, he bristled. ‘No.’

  Sandy had long ago committed to the path of least resistance. ‘Okay, I’ll see if we can’t have an exterminator come in and look around your area.’

  ‘That’d be helpful. I can show you where they come in, if you want.’

  ‘Where they come in?’

  ‘They’re in the cubicle wall. I don’t know. Nesting.’

  Sandy arched an eyebrow.

  ‘That? Right there?’ Sandy was pointing to the general area where Joe had indicated that the hole was.

  ‘Yes.’ He thought she was pretending to see it.

  On Friday, the office manager stopped by Joe’s cubicle unexpectedly. He, too, pretended to see the imperfection in the weave that Joe indicated.

  ‘So, ants, huh?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ was Joe’s honest reply.

  ‘I guess we could have the office furniture guys out and just replace the cubicle wall, if that’s all it is. Of course, I’d hate to pay to have them come out if it’s an infestation somewhere; that might not go to the root cause, you know?’ The office manger turned his back on the cubicle wall and sat on the edge of the counter-top. ‘Say, how’s the family birthing centre coming along? Pretty well, do you think?’

  Joe felt nervous and rubbed his hands together. ‘Sure. I think we’ll come in under budget.’ Joe noticed the office manager looking at his hands and he dropped them into his lap. ‘Did the client call you?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. Just asking, you understand. It’s good to keep up with things, see how people are. So: how are things at home?’

  Joe thought that things at home were generally just fine. With Ashley in fourth grade and Kathy starting kindergarten, Pauline was excited at the prospect of going back to work and had begun to look for something during the day involving elder care. Joe was supportive of the idea and pledged to help out around the house a little more, maybe even cook dinner once in awhile. As Joe was essentially inept in the kitchen, Pauline declined the offer and asked him just to try to keep up on the ‘honey-do’ list. Ashley was going to start soccer again in two weeks, and Joe enjoyed himself when he had the chance to stay for a game. Kathy had zipped through her dinosaur phase and was determined to be a fireman when she grew up, gender roles be damned. Sure, Pauline and Joe squabbled from time to time, and he was worried that she might be too optimistic about finding the perfect job right away, and buying a new water heater coming off their summer trip had put them in a bit of a hole, and Ashley already had a ‘boyfriend’ that Joe couldn’t stand, but—Joe didn’t like to complain at length.

  This particular weekend was rainy. The girls were shut indoors with no outlet for their school-year-starting excitement. A fight was inevitable, and Joe was perhaps a little stern in his admonishments, leaving the family in a poor mood. Joe’s attempt to make it up to everyone by buying dinner at Applebee’s was only mildly successful. No one wanted to go to church on Sunday, and Joe didn’t fight it. He thought maybe he should go himself, but wondered how that would look; he didn’t want a lot of questions. He had had enough questions at work, and work came around again too soon.

  On Monday there was incontrovertible damage to the fabric on the cubicle wall. The weave was frayed and torn and clearly displaced from the inside out. The hole was larger than a silver dollar but the damaged fabric around it sagged and covered the gap. Joe dismissed immediately as folly the idea
of displaying the hole for Sandy or for the office manager; he imagined they’d think he’d caused the damage. Instead, he decided to investigate further and expose the nest himself; hell, if he ended up provoking the things such that they infested the entire office, Joe figured it would serve them right for doubting him and treating him like he was losing his grip on reality.

  Joe pulled open the drawer under the counter and retrieved an x-acto knife. He cleared the papers away on the counter in front of the hole. He leaned forward and held the knife like a pen, at eye-level; Joe scoped down the length of the barrel and got close, less than eight inches from the cubicle wall. He poked the blade behind one flap of fabric and moved it aside. Joe expected the wall inside to be light coloured; he was surprised that it appeared to be black. Joe eased forward, eased the knife forward, and—and realised he should have encountered resistance by now. The knife was more than an inch past the fabric of the wall, but had touched nothing beyond. Joe pushed the knife forward another inch, then another. He jabbed it forward nearly the length of the handle—nothing. He moved it back from the hole so that only the blade was concealed by the jutting fabric. He turned the fabric like a fold of skin and leaned in close to the wall. He looked into the dark space.

  Joe felt as though a great rush of wind blew through his head and a throbbing hum consumed his body. He experienced a vertiginous movement forward as the dimensions of enclosure around him seemed to drop away in all directions; he felt as though he clung to a hook above the opening of a voluminous mouth. An enormous cavern yawned around Joe. What seemed black revealed itself in a swirl of mournful mahogany and obsidian and pearls of midnight blue; great stalagmites of marbled jade erected from basalt platforms reaching to the ceiling, woven with filaments of complex decoration—Joe realised he was not in a cavern, but a cathedral. The stalagmites and stalactites were, in fact, a colonnade in a tremendous nave whose reaches disappeared into the distance; towering arches swept overhead, their apexes shrouded by a vermilion mist. But this was no austere sanctuary of restraint; rather, every surface was ornamented or carved with relief, depicting shapes Joe could not see or comprehend clearly. He took them to be creatures of sorts engaged in blasphemous worship and sacrifice, surrounded by intricate filigree and symbols of dreadful meaning. And over every surface the insects crawled. Legion upon horrific legion of the things that had crept through Joe’s cubicle wall scurried purposefully around and over each other. They attended and polished the decorations, and buzzed in hideous cacophony until their song took form in discordant harmonies shifting in rhythmic swells against a bass drone. Joe’s senses reeled, yet somewhere within the fragments of his rational thought, he found cause for wonder: If the insects he’d encountered before were so tiny, then the cathedral he viewed now should not seem so colossal. Yet, in the viewing of it, Joe somehow knew that the size of the insects was all wrong. Moreover, there was something strange about them—beyond the aberration of their very existence—as if they were not simple insects at all; indeed, Joe felt himself begin to move ‘closer’ to one of the great pillars and, as he did, some detail of the things began to show: There was a clear, lighter space around the head, a faint glow like an orb concealing an indistinct silhouette.