The Door to Lost Pages

by Claude Lalumiere

  Lucas continued to leaf through Billy’s stack; he stopped and gasped, and his eyes grew wide. “Are those the Purple Zombie Rats of the Spectroverse?”

  “Yeah, looks like they’re back.”

  Addressing his assistant, Lucas said, “Aydee, can you look after the shop alone for a while? I’m gonna be busy in the back with Billy, okay?”

  Billy attached the two big pouches Lucas had given him to his bicycle rack. All kinds of sticks and things protruded every which way.

  He jumped on his bicycle and waved goodbye to Lucas and Aydee.

  Watching the eight-year-old boy ride away, Aydee yelled: “What. Was. That!”

  “That, my dear, was Billy, the monster hunter.”

  “Don’t be coy, Lucas! Tell me.”

  “What can I say? He keeps his monster-hunting equipment here so his parents won’t find it, and I help him out with research so he’s well prepared when he comes up against the monsters he hunts. What’s to tell?”

  “Fine. Be that way.”

  Billy’s mother tucked him in. “You know, you really should try to be more careful when you’re out playing, my little darling.” She gently brushed her lips over the bruise on his forehead.

  “But, Mom, two Weredevils from Planet D’tk jumped me from behind while I was performing a rite to banish the Purple Zombie Rats of the Spectroverse. I managed to suck them into the vortex I conjured for the Zombie Rats, but not before they got in a couple of good smacks.”

  She sighed in exasperation, but the sigh turned into a chuckle. She beamed an amused smile at her son.

  “Yes, Mom. I’ll be more careful.” But, he thought, the Purple Zombie Rats of the Spectroverse are still on the loose! Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll get them.

  Billy’s mother kissed him on the cheek, rose, and turned off the light.

  “Sweet dreams, my little man.”

  “Goodnight, Mom.”

  She closed his bedroom door.

  Exhausted from his hectic day, Billy fell asleep immediately.

  He dreamt.

  He dreamt of the Purple Zombie Rats of the Spectroverse (again!) and the Stone Ghouls of the Bottomless Pit and the Fireflies of Doom and the Giant Vampire Mosquitoes of Creepy Island and the Screaming Hulk of Neospace and the Lurking Leeches of the Forbidden Zone.

  On the night table next to his bed, there was a fresh stack of white paper and, in a wooden mug, a bunch of well-sharpened colour pencils.

  Tomorrow, another busy day awaited Billy, the monster hunter. He would be ready.

  Let evil beware!

  Chapter 3 - Dregs

  Aydee had stepped outside with Lucas and the dogs. She enjoyed the misty not-quite-rain and the faint glow of the morning sun attempting to pierce the flimsy cloud cover. When the weather was like this, she felt the world reflected her sense of place in life: neither this nor that; neither here nor there; perpetually on the brink of transformation; unwilling to settle for just one potentiality. The dogs turned the corner, and Lucas vanished after them.

  Aydee dug her fingers into her frizzy hair, the dampness comforting her with unarticulated impressions of a nostalgia for a past entirely different from the one she had known, of a primordial memory of the essential moistness of life. She filled her lungs with the finely humid air, felt the contended smile spread on her face, and turned back inside to open Lost Pages for the day.

  She was engaged in her futile morning ritual, attempting to put the perpetually chaotic shelves into at least a semblance of order, when the mail arrived. The mail carrier tended to avoid stepping too far inside the store, habitually leaving the mail on the nearest stack of books without making eye contact with either Lucas or Aydee and knocking loudly to announce the day’s delivery. But today a package needed to be signed for, so he nervously approached Aydee, darting a sharp whisper at her: “Signature.” The parcel was for Lucas; except for the occasional correspondence still addressed to Mister Rafael, the mail always was always addressed to either Lucas or the shop. Never to Aydee. Even though she worked here and lived here.

  Nevertheless, Aydee sifted through the day’s mail, curious about the exotic stamps—many from countries that might not even exist, as most people reckoned things. Some of the envelopes were illuminated with strange drawings she could not quite make sense of. But it was a thick, plain, oversize white envelope with mundane stamps and no return address that most attracted her curiosity. It was addressed simply to Lost Pages. Its stark austerity intrigued her, commanded her attention.

  She heard the sounds of the dogs coming from near the door. Without thinking, she stuffed the letter inside her clothes just as Lucas burst into the store with his pack.

  She showed Lucas the day’s mail—minus the purloined white envelope—and, without another word, stepped through to behind the store, to the part of the house where she and Lucas lived. He was so entranced with that parcel Aydee had had to sign for that he didn’t notice—or at least comment on—the girl’s nervousness.

  Aydee didn’t know why she’d hidden that envelope. Had she asked, Lucas would have shown her its contents; he wouldn’t have minded if she’d opened it without asking first. It wasn’t his way to be secretive or authoritarian with her. He might be coy, or have a flair for dramatic mystery, but he never out-and-out hid anything or deceived her.

  But she wanted this letter to be hers, and hers alone. She wanted something—anything—to be hers. All this—Lost Pages, and all the wonder that came with it—it wasn’t hers. Most of the time, it all felt right, like she belonged here and nowhere else, and certainly not in the world of her nightmares. But sometimes the sensation of being a guest or even an intruder, of this new life being transitional, crept up on her and she would have to fight the panic that threatened to seize her.

  Up in her room, she minutely scrutinized the letter. There was nothing to observe. Save for the address of the shop, the envelope was blank and plain. Delicately, she peeled it open and slid out the contents: a thick pile of handwritten pages, torn from a notebook, clipped together with an unsigned typewritten note.

  Dear Lost Pages,

  I yearn to share this story of my life with someone who will believe me. And I suspect any of you know more of the truth of this tale than I do or ever will. Initially, I thought that writing out the story as a long diary entry would suffice me, but it did not. And so, finally, I decided to send these pages to you.

  I need someone to know of, and perhaps even care about, these unusual events that moved me so profoundly—some might say scarred me, but I treasure these memories too much to belittle them so.

  Please forgive the anonymity—you will notice that I was careful to avoid names of people and places that might lead to my identity—but this impulse to expose the story of my life does not trump the urge to protect the contemplative privacy that finally allows me a measure of serenity that had long been denied me.

  My thanks—for indulging me, yes, but for much else besides, as this tale will make clear to you.

  Aydee had to control herself so as not to scream with excitement. Here was a story she needed to read: an opportunity to learn how other people, besides Lucas, besides herself, had been affected by their contact with Lost Pages. A chance, maybe, to better understand this strange life and her place in it. She bundled herself in her reading chair, enraptured.

  According to an old folktale, nightmares once covered the night sky, blotting out the stars. When those creatures of darkness invaded our dreams the night sky opened up, and the stars revealed themselves.

  I found the book that contained that particular story at one of my favourite teenage haunts. Lost Pages wasn’t the only bookshop I frequented, but the books I found on its shelves were . . . unique. I never saw any of these books anywhere else. Bizarre bestiaries. Dictionaries of dead, obscure languages. Maps to lands that may never have been. Essays on religions with unfamiliar names. Obscure mythologies. Accounts of wars no history teacher had ever mentioned. Such were the wares of the bookshop
that fed my teenage dreams. But I left my hometown after high school, when I took my first trip overseas, and, shortly after that, went to university in another city. Lost Pages was left behind—a passing fancy of adolescence.

  My parents had offered me a two-month-long voyage abroad for, as far as I could tell, two reasons. On the surface, they felt they could afford this luxury because, unlike most of my graduating class, I showed no interest in automobiles; many of my classmates were rewarded with a shiny, fashionable car for coming out of high school alive. Unspoken, however, was that my mother and father worried that I was spending too much time in my own head. They often commented, with varying degrees of tact and concern, on my lack of friends. They judged—as it turned out, wisely—that being dropped alone in the middle of foreign lands would make me notice the world around me.

  And so I did. I stood next to the sea at dawn, inhaling its pungent aroma. I walked through streets too narrow for automobiles, yet bustling with human activity, loud with foreign languages and cacophonies. I ate delicately spiced foods, enjoyed an undreamt-of variety of meats, vegetables, and fruit. I wandered city avenues where lovers danced and kissed in the moonlight to the tunes of street musicians or of their own hearts. And there was so much more that I experienced. This whirlpool of exotica awakened in me unfamiliar lusts.

  Two weeks into my trip—on a hot summer night at times tempered by an elusive cool breeze—I was in a port city whose hectic nightlife clustered in a busy quarter next to the docks. Club music blasted through open doorways, mixing with the sounds of outdoor performers. The women wore short, tight dresses, advertising their physical charms to potential suitors. The men, overdressed in the heat as was the fashion, sweated the night away dancing athletically, careful never to let their eyes wander from the women they coveted. I was mesmerized by the nimble performances of these dancers, the precision of their movements, the sway of their hips and shoulders, the sweat spraying from their brows as they swirled to the rhythms of the dance music.

  I was tempted to dance myself, but there was no-one I wanted to impress or seduce. It was a notion I could barely contemplate. My new experiences had yet to include sex—I had never even masturbated! The sexual energy that, unknown to me then, was yearning to break free was intensifying the self-consciousness I felt over my awkward body. Not being a fashionable young man, I was dressed to be comfortable in the heat: thin cotton pants and a T-shirt. My awareness of the inadequacy of my appearance emphasized the notion that I was a child among adults; I remained a spectator.

  I had been in this city for three days. Each succeeding night, I was further entranced by its vigorous nightlife, by the soulful music, by the simmering sexuality.

  As the evening wore on, I grew increasingly frustrated at my inability to join in the festivities. I felt cheapened by my voyeuristic role, and I was tortured by an inner conflict—the desire to abandon myself to the surrounding merriment clashing with an unshakable fear of embarrassment. Burdened with self-loathing, I decided to return to the inn where I was staying, hoping to calm down enough to fall asleep.

  On my way back, I was overtaken several times by an extreme dizziness and had to brace myself against walls or lampposts to keep myself from stumbling. I was not tired—quite the opposite! I was a nervous mess: exhilarated at the intensity of my experiences and angry with myself for my cowardice.

  A block or two from the inn, while I was suffering another bout of dizziness, my hand failed to find a steady purchase, and I fell. A young man—he looked about my age—rushed to my side to help me. The skin-on-skin contact—my rescuer’s hands clasping my bare arms—was such an intense shock that I almost fainted.

  I took a deep breath, and, with the stranger’s help, I got up and steadied myself. He looked vaguely familiar: slightly taller than I, dark eyes, olive skin smooth and dry despite the heat, strong sharp features, a pronounced nose, stylish black pants and white shirt. I was dazzled by what I took to be a trick of the light: highlights of green, blue, and brown shimmered in his dark hair. Probably I had seen him at one of the clubs, or in the streets among the strollers and dancers.

  His gaze locked with mine as he asked me something in a language I could not understand—he spoke so fast I couldn’t even be sure which language he was speaking. He seemed genuinely concerned. I tried to mime that I was all right, livening up my risible performance with a few simple English words.

  He laughed at my antics. I surprised myself by laughing along with him. I was such a serious young man. Laughing at myself was a novel experience. It somewhat attenuated my self-loathing.

  Looking at my companion, I remembered the handsome men dancing to seduce the eager young women watching them. I was overcome with a vision of my new friend dancing as I had seen those men dance: his hips and shoulders swaying confidently, his seductive smile directed toward me, his eyes never straying from my body. . . .

  The next thing I knew his lips were closed over mine, his tongue exploring my mouth, just as my own tongue tasted the wetness of his.

  I panicked. I shoved him away. The dizziness was stronger than ever; again, I felt faint, but I struggled not to succumb to this weakness and ran to the inn.

  Inside my room, I fell into the chair, closed my eyes, and took long, slow breaths. I was confused, my panicked heart thumping wildly. But I was also exhausted. I got up and started to undress, eager to climb into bed.

  Taking off my pants, I was startled by the sight of my erect penis. Of course, I’d had erections before, but I’d never paid any attention to them. This one, huge and dripping, refused to be ignored. At that moment, it occurred to me that I had felt its pull all evening. Nevertheless, out of naiveté and habit and ignorance, I still neglected it.

  Why had I never masturbated? Even now, I can’t really say. Not out of prudishness, and certainly not out of some strange belief that it could be evil or bad in any way—I simply hadn’t.

  I crawled into bed, determined to fall asleep—despite my overengorged penis—and put this troublesome evening behind me. Tomorrow, I thought, I would check out and head for another city. I felt compelled to flee. I was too young to know that, no matter how far I fled, I could not escape myself.

  The erection made it difficult for me to get comfortable. Nevertheless, I did succeed in falling asleep.

  I awoke trembling with violent pleasure, and, before I could take stock of the situation, an inner explosion sent aftershocks of ecstasy rippling through my body. I was unable to make out any distinct sensation. My sense of touch was now so acute that all contact with my skin—air, sheets, anything—contributed to the sensation of being enveloped by a warm sea of delicious comfort, like a fetus blissfully floating in its world of amniotic fluid.

  Slowly, I regained the ability to distinguish sensations. I felt my back bathing in a pool of sweat. I felt the cool breeze from the open window next to my bed. I felt a warm mouth around my spent cock.

  My fellator was the gorgeous young man I had met earlier in the streets. His kiss had been my first. And now he had given me my first orgasm.

  He must have sensed a shift in my posture; he took his mouth off my penis and stood up, examining my face. There was enough moonlight coming in from the window for me to make out his seductive, mischievous smile.

  I recalled how he had so easily succeeded in making me laugh at myself. Seeing this strange and brash boy towering over me with his proudly erect cock, I could not help but recognize the comical nature of my behaviour earlier that night. What a burlesque figure I must have cut! Running scared from my own body, from my excitement, from its fulfillment, from my new friend’s beauty, from the possibilities his body offered me.

  As he smiled at me, I laughed. Instantly, he was infected by my outburst. He leapt on me, and we hugged fiercely, still laughing.

  After hours of exploring each other’s bodies, we lay silently in bed, my head on his chest while he stroked my hair. The first light of dawn was seeping through the window. He kissed my forehead and dise
ntangled himself from me. I closed my eyes, savouring the lingering sensations of his touch.

  I heard him fumble around the room, and, moments later, I felt his hand on my stomach. I opened my eyes to see him offering me a drink from what I took to be a bottle of wine. It was transparent, clearly revealing the amber fluid within.

  Seeing me hesitate, he took a sip himself. Overcompensating for my timidity, I grabbed the bottle away from him, more roughly than I’d intended. I kneeled on the bed and, theatrically, raised the bottle to my mouth. I swung my head backward and let the dark liquid cascade down my throat, nearly gagging as a result of my eagerness to show off. Rivulets of amber flowed through the burgeoning hair of my adolescent chest. He snatched the bottle away from me before I spilled the entire contents.

  I coughed to regain my breath but found myself dizzy and drowsy. The shapes around me were losing their definition. Once more, my seducer kissed me. His tongue playfully explored my mouth as I felt his fingers gently tighten around my scrotum.

  I did not lose consciousness; but my sense of self dissolved into—

  Fabulous creatures emerging from exploding stars. I myself am one of many laughing monsters frolicking amongst the flames of the sun. I witness great migrations of majestic undersea beasts. I am the great primeval ocean in which they thrive. I undergo uncounted metamorphoses, limbs turning into wings turning into tendrils turning into leaves turning into ripe fruit turning into stone turning into molten lava turning into dark ambrosia trickling down the throats of unfathomable deities turning into a thin old man wracked by ceaseless physical pain turning into a glowing snake changing colour with every flick of its tail while negotiating a path through high and dense grass turning into a pantheon of gods smashing planets asunder for their amusement turning into a stomach growling to be fed turning into a baby suckling at its mother’s teat turning into a host of dark shapes writhing in the sky.