A Season In Carcosa

by Sr. (Editor) Joseph S. Pulver

  She did not speak. Gliding to the night stand, she withdrew a glass pipe from her robe. It was long and slim, a delicate stem that sloped to a shallow bowl. At the night stand, she pushed back the lid of an ornate snuff box. Inside, I could see a coarse black powder, gritty like coal-dust. She withdrew a pinch and placed it in the bowl.

  With the pipe in one hand, she approached the hearth and took down the candelabrum. Her robe fell open, revealing her breasts, the thatch of hair between her legs. She made no attempt to cover herself but merely held the candelabrum at her chest and gazed at me through the twitching flame-tips. Her eyes bored into me: black and deep and bracingly still. I returned her stare, unable to look away.

  She exhaled, extinguishing two of the candles so that only one remained lit. Tilting the candelabrum, she held the flame to the side of the pipe-bowl and slipped the stem into her mouth. The powder glowed, orange then black. Her inhalation lasted several seconds.

  She replaced the pipe and candle on the mantelpiece and turned her gaze on me once more. Extending her hand, she beckoned me closer, one finger curling back, drawing me in. Only then did I realize that she had not exhaled, that she was in fact holding the pipe-smoke in her lungs.

  I stepped forward.

  For a moment, she regarded me closely, silently. Then, with queer violence, she grabbed hold of my hair and tugged down my head, crushing my face against the mask. Her mouth found mine through the gap in the porcelain. Her lips were as dry and coarse as parchment.

  Smoke filled my mouth, my lungs. Darkness bloomed inside my skull, the acrid stench of blood-iron, slow decay. My vision blurred. I coughed and staggered back, losing my balance and tumbling backward. I landed on the bed. The blankets yielded—gave way—and closed over me. The bedroom vanished, and I sank into oblivion.

  ~*~

  Stars. A billion pupils—constricting, expanding—like holes cut through the dome of the sky. Every star provided me a glimpse of a greater illumination beyond, of the light that was always there, though sometimes hidden, cloaked in darkness in the same way Camilla wore a mask, and for the same reason: to hide the face of God.

  Years passed like ghosts at broad noon, unremembered, unseen. The Earth groaned and shifted underfoot, releasing a cry of agony that stretched over eons and millennia, dulled by time to a gentle hum. It gave little warning of what came next.

  The sun exploded, bursting like a fever-mark. Heat poured out to cover all things. The stones liquefied, the air evaporated. The sky fell away, and I hurtled into the stars.

  Surrounded now, I observed that they were not pupils as I had first imagined but flaming suns, ringed with planets like half-lit moons. These new suns arranged themselves in strange patterns around me, forming bands of color, spirals that recalled the coils of Camilla’s hair.

  But even these were left behind when I passed beyond the farthest star and entered a darkness more alien—and yet more fundamental—than the womb that gave me birth. I was right to have thought that Creation wore a mask, but it was one of light, not dark. The stars served only to conceal the silent tempest that lay beyond, the storm in which I now found myself, shivering and cold. But I was no longer among the heavens. Instead, I had descended inward, to the very center of my being, and discovered there the same boiling chaos where my soul should have been.

  Despairing, I crawled forward, unable to rise, while the cosmos cracked and fell to pieces around me. This was the storm that lived inside of me, inside of all men: a thousand cities scorched and shattered, reduced to spinning fragments. Providence. New York. Chicago. Black snow on ceaseless wind.

  Footsteps. From somewhere far off, I heard a child’s steps: stumbling, uncertain. The night parted and re-formed, the storm taking shape as the wind snapped back against itself, smashing those broken cities together, until they coalesced into the silhouette of a young boy, no more than three years old. He tottered toward me with mouth open, a perfect circle—screaming, though I heard nothing.

  How can I describe this?

  It was you. You, my boy. The reason I’m writing this. Years before I met your mother, before you were born, I knew that we would share this place, would always. There was comfort in that thought, and there was sadness, the latter cutting deep when you offered me your hand. You were frail and sickly, exactly like the child I would watch you become, but still you took my hand, and raised me to my feet, and lifted me out of that silent storm.

  ~*~

  In Camilla’s bedroom, the candle had burned down. It guttered into insignificance, spreading a shadow over the stained bed sheets, the cracked and peeling wallpaper. Around me, the room had fallen into disrepair, all elegance stripped away. The air was dank with the stench of mildew and perfume, a sweetness like high fever.

  Camilla stood at the window. She was dressed in imitation silks, her face turned to the slit in the drapes. She had removed the mask, which now sat on the nightstand, but the darkness hid her features, and for this, I was glad. She sighed, faintly, and it occurred to me that she was waiting for something, or someone. I gathered my things and slipped from the room.

  In the hallway, I encountered my young companion, his valise tucked under one arm. Evidently, he had just let himself out from another bedroom.

  His eyes widened upon seeing me. His face went pale.

  But—that’s Camilla’s room!

  Yes. I was told to ask for her—

  Who told you that?

  The night clerk. At my hotel.

  My God! You must get out of here. If he finds you…

  He? What are you talking about?

  She’s King’s girl. Camilla. Cassie is too, though he doesn’t mind me sketching her.

  Sketching?

  Realization dawned at last. The man from the wallpaper—the figure who stood watching—was none other than my young companion. Though drawn with the vaguest of lines, the face was unquestionably Robert’s. Moreover, I realized that it must be a self-portrait. The valise, no doubt, contained his pencils and sketchbooks.

  He took me firmly by the arm.

  We have to go, he said. He’ll be back soon, but we can take the fire escape. With luck, we might manage to avoid him.

  My mouth fell open, but I could not find the words to protest. Robert didn’t wait for me to speak. He spirited me down the corridor, which I now saw to be every bit as dilapidated as Camilla’s bedroom, and through a doorway at the end of the hall that led out to the fire escape.

  I don’t understand, I managed at last. Who is this King?

  Silas King. A former ship captain and smuggler. Originally from England, I understand, though he now styles himself The King of the Bowery.

  A gang leader, then?

  Yes. You might say that. Camilla has been his since she was a little girl. Don’t you see? She belongs to him. All of the Bowery knows better than to ask for her.

  All at once, I understood the night clerk’s deception, the thin woman’s surprise when I mentioned Camilla. With a thrill of fear, I followed Robert down the fire escape, moving slowly so as to mute my clattering steps. By now, it was nearly midnight, but the air had not cooled. The breeze from the East River brought only heat and soot, the mingled smells of smoke and sewage.

  Careful, Robert warned as we reached the ground. The alley before us teemed with faint movement, the scurrying of hundreds of rats. They parted before us like a sparkling sea, fleeing into rubbish bins, piles of twisted metal.

  Moments later, I saw what had brought them into the alley to feed. Opposite the fire escape were buckets of slop and grease, which half-concealed two sheeted forms that may have once been human. Children, I thought, dead on the street. Or the bodies of King’s victims.

  The alley led back to the Bowery, but there was no sign of the wealthy theater-goers or their gleaming carriages. Outside a barroom, two foreigners fought with knives while a crowd looked on. A young family huddled together in a doorway. The mother called to us, begging for coin. For the babe, she said, but we paid her no h
eed.

  Halfway down the block, we passed beneath the yellow sign once more. Formerly grand and imposing, the establishment now bore the marks of neglect: bricks crumbling, windows cracked or broken. I glanced up to the third floor, where Camilla was still visible: a faceless shadow, an outline glimpsed through tattered curtains.

  We hurried past.

  ~*~

  Robert froze. Cursing, he took me roughly by the arm and shoved me into the mouth of an alley. I cried out in surprise, prompting him to drop his case and grab me by the collar.

  That’s him, he hissed. King.

  Whatever I had expected, I was unprepared for the size of the man who came into view. King was tall, nearly seven-foot, and grossly corpulent. The flesh of his neck was soft, doughy. It gathered in folds above his collar and swung free like a turkey-wattle, rippling with every labored footfall, his entire body vibrating, a drawn string. His hair was black and thickly-greased. His complexion was sallow, shockingly pale, and his face was pitted with disease. An open sore marred his upper lip, red and glistening beneath the thin mustache.

  And yet, for all this, his clothing was exceedingly fine. His top hat and frock were of the best workmanship, and a gold chain stretched across his quivering gut. He had lost his left ear but wore a porcelain substitute in its place, and he walked with the aid of a cane, a wrist-thick shaft terminating in a shard of yellow quartz: uncut, its jagged edges showing between his flabby fingers.

  King glanced down the alley as he passed. His eyes met mine, briefly, and I saw that they were black: the same non-color as the shadow inside me or the places beyond the stars. He must not have seen me, though, for he kept walking, his cane striking the pavement like a pistol’s report. The sound dwindled and disappeared.

  Robert released a breath. He turned to me, brow shining with perspiration.

  We have a few minutes. Where will you go?

  Back to my hotel, I suppose.

  He shook his head. I wouldn’t do that. The clerk thought he was sending you to your death. He will be ill-pleased to see you again.

  The police, then.

  And you think they would listen? They might turn you over to King themselves if they heard he was looking.

  Then what?

  Make for Grand Central. I’ll pay for a hansom—it’s the fastest way. From there you can catch the first train home.

  And then…?

  He shrugged. Stay away from New York. And if you have to come back, then for God’s sake, don’t come near the Bowery. He really is a king here—and not the forgiving kind. However, you should be safe outside of the city.

  Should be, I repeated.

  He’s pursued some men as far as San Francisco and for less cause. You gave a pseudonym? Good. Then he doesn’t know your name or what you look like. He might never find you. Nevertheless he won’t stop searching. You can be sure of that.

  I recalled the moment in which our eyes had met—black on black, mirrors turned to reflect one another—and realized that it didn’t matter what he knew, or what I looked like, for we carried the same tempest inside us.

  My companion collected his valise from the ground and proceeded to the end of the alley. He hailed a cab, which drew to a shuddering halt, its lanterns casting us into sharp relief. The horses snorted, slick and steaming in that heat.

  Robert helped me into the carriage.

  Remember what I said. Avoid the Bowery.

  And you?

  You needn’t worry about me. King and I have an understanding. In any case, it hardly matters. I’m leaving soon, maybe for good.

  Where are you going?

  Paris. The School of Fine Arts. He hefted his valise. I’m going to be a proper artist.

  With that, he grinned broadly and wished me goodnight. The driver cracked his whip, snapping the horses into motion. I glanced back over my shoulder, hoping for a final glimpse of my friend, but he was already gone, lost somewhere in that hell of smoke and night.

  I never saw him again.

  ~*~

  For years, there were nightmares. In sleep, I plunged once more into seething chaos and surfaced in a place of solitude, cast up in the midst of the silent storm Camilla had showed me. Again, I forced myself forward, crawling hand over elbow, unable to stand, and again, the darkness whirled and took shape ahead of me.

  Silas King. He towered over me like the looming specter of ultimate horror, and though I tried to crawl away, I was never fast enough. He found me, always, and I woke up gasping, panting after breath that would not come.

  Around this time, I met your mother. When I proposed, she squealed with delight and threw her arms around me. She kissed my neck and whispered love-words in my ear. In those days, you see, she was not yet your mother, the woman you would know. That came later.

  But the nightmares persisted, worse than before. Every night, I came awake screaming, choking on sweetness and fever. In the morning, the taste of King’s breath lingered in my mouth, recalling the stench of dried blood or the dust Camilla had burned, the smoke with which she had filled me.

  Then you were born, as slight and sickly as I had dreamed you. The nightmares ceased soon after, another miracle. At night, I descended into darkness, our darkness, and there found you waiting, not King. Only then did I begin to understand the nature of the blessing and the curse that Camilla had bestowed on me.

  It couldn’t last, of course. In late ‘92, I traveled to New York on business. I stayed far from the Bowery. I was careful. All the same, King must have learned of my visit, for I soon became aware of someone following me.

  One afternoon, in Boston, on a crowded street, I happened to look behind me and spotted him twenty yards back. He was attired in his customary hat and frock, the gold chain glittering on his belly. He smiled, perhaps in recognition, and hastened toward me, as though advancing to meet an old friend. He moved quickly for his size, loping like an animal, and I took to my heels, thinking only of escape.

  I ran. My flight brought me here: to this city, this hotel. Ten after two. There isn’t much time. I can hear him in the hallway, pacing beyond the door. His cane taps and taps on the boards, doubling the sound of my heartbeat. Soon he’ll knock. He’ll rap on the door with that shard of quartz. He’ll say my name, my real name, and then I’ll have to let him in.

  WS Lovecraft, 1893

  it sees me when I'm not looking

  By Gary McMahon

  It was a strange time that spring in New York City. the air was cold. the sidewalks were shining from the rain. puddles, like mirrors thrown down and smashed on the concrete, reflected my absolute drunkenness as if trying to shame me. but I didn’t care. the shit was inside me, all over me, and if I went down I wasn’t going down sober.

  I’d never liked that city, and it damn well hated me. but we had an understanding. I’d been there a month, marooned after giving a poetry recital to a women’s book circle. instead of a free bed and a hot fuck, I’d been thrown out onto the street after the gig, and decided to hang around for a while.

  the last time I’d had a woman had been two months ago. Sandy Lane. that was her name – like a punchline to a bad joke. we’d been like two stoned birds on a perch, propping each other up, but I left when the money ran out. her daddy stopped cashing her checks so I stopped cashing her check – if you know what I mean.

  so there I was, riding a whisky high and with nowhere to stay when things got low. I considered calling Sandy, but the thought of her big dimpled white ass and the way she liked to sit on my face and break wind in my mouth made me feel all on edge so I walked on down to the village instead, looking for some long-haired hepcats to lay into.

  that was how I came into contact with the play. purely by accident. when I went looking for a fight. well, I sure got one, didn’t I? one that might just see me trading punches with the darkness forever.

  “hey, Chinaski! hey, you cheap dimestore hood! CHINASKI!”

  I was ambling through SoHo when I heard the voice, and at first I didn’t
recognise it. but when someone calls your name at 3 a.m. in the morning, and then starts abusing you, your instincts tend to kick in. so I turned with my hands balled into fists and my arms raised in a fighter’s stance.

  “hey, Chinaski, you goddam BUM!”

  it was Mervin Bones, a dried-up wino from Hell’s Kitchen. I hadn’t seen him in days – someone had told me he died, and I hadn’t thought enough of the guy to miss him. he was always good for a drink, though, so I lowered my hands and opened my fists in greeting.

  “hey, Merv. how’s things?”

  he sort of swerved towards me across the sidewalk, a brown-bagged bottle in one hand. he took a sip and let his hand fall. I looked hungrily at the bottle and I’m pretty sure I even licked my lips.

  “what’s up, man?”

  he swayed before me, his eyes like ball-bearings spinning around in his head. “been looking for you, Hank. I got somethin’ you might wanna see.”

  he knew I wrote poetry and had a fondness for classical music. to Merv, I was an educated man. to anyone else I was a no-good drunk with an interest in beauty. I was a student of Dostoevsky and listened to Mahler whilst drinking wine in the dark. somewhere inside my heart a bluebird sang, but I was the only one who could hear its tune.

  “tell me about it, Merv.” I reached out and took the bottle from his hand. his grip was loose. he didn’t even realise I’d grabbed it until he saw me take a drink.

  “yeah...help yourself.”

  the whisky hit my insides running. it was hot and cool and sweet and evil. it tasted of every woman I’d ever kissed and smelled like every dirty soul I’d ever knocked out in a fistfight in an alleyway behind some bar.

  “I got this play. somethin’ you’d like. you being a writer, and all.” he smiled. his teeth were blackened, rotten. the gums were bleeding. I inspected the neck of the bottle, but it was clean. so I took another throat-full.

  “what kind of a play? I don’t like that modern shit they put on the stage now, I like the bard – gimme some Shakespeare or give me nothing, you stinkin’ fuck.” I considered smashing the whisky bottle across the side of his face just to amuse myself but I didn’t want to waste what was left.