by Edward Lee
She tip-toed back to the front room and put on clean shorts and a halter, then paused to look dreamily at Sonia who remained asleep atop the sheets. I should get into bed with her, she considered but then realized that would backfire. Sonia’s mood would remain ruined by her upset over Frank. Instead, Hazel grabbed her camera, then quietly went up the metal ladder next to the shower room, pushed open the trapdoor, and climbed onto the roof.
The sun blazed. Now THAT’S what I call scenery, she thought. If she positioned herself right, she could look straight down the direction of the driveway through a wide break in the trees and see just how expansive Lake Sladder was. The parts of town that were visible looked tiny but meticulously detailed. She took several photos.
Without realizing it, she was craning her neck. Another lucky vantage point showed her the ominous rise of Whipple’s Peak which now, for some reason, looked so immense it appeared unreal. After squinting— There it is! —she made out the clot of mist that Horace had indicated. The mist hung just before the bluff, which looked so steep now it made her dizzy to imagine being up there. But—
What’s the cause of that mist? It just seemed to sit there at the peak, a pale smear.
Was there really a cottage concealed within it?
And is Frank really there?
She dawdled around some more on the roof, then caught herself eyeing a very tall tree—a white pine, she believed—that spired right next to the cabin, so close that she could stand on the eave and touch the bark. She heard birds rustling amid the density of branches, noticed several bowls sticking out of the trunk like holed warts. She smiled when she noticed sparrows nesting in one. Next, though, she was leaning over slightly, hands on knees...
A track of splintery gouges were evident in the bark—she thought oddly of teethmarks—spaced by several feet and appearing fairly regular. The tracks led at least fifty feet up the fat, towering tree.
What the hell are those? she wondered but then the answer snapped. The gouges could only have been made by something metal, and that’s when she remembered those pole-climbing boots that Henry Wilmarth had mysteriously left in the garbage can.
He must’ve used them to climb THIS tree, she realized for when she looked around at the other trees in proximity to the dwelling, they were all free of the gouges.
Why on earth would he want to do that?
Hazel was back down the ladder and sneaking out the front door a minute later. I’ll bet the garbage men already came, she suspected but when she opened the can at the end of the drive, the implements were still there. Henry was almost sixty, and if he could do it, I can do it, she reasoned. She collected the spiked boots and buckled strap of leather that the receipt called a “tree-scaling belt.”
“Can’t hurt to check it out,” she talked to herself, and besides, from a position high in the tree she’d be able to get some spectacular pictures. She tip-toed back through the cabin, grabbed a pair of work gloves from the kitchen, then went back up to the roof. I’m a twenty-two year old with a Masters degree, she reminded herself. I should be able to figure this out... She sat awkwardly on the roof and strapped on the spiked boots. Standing, then, was even more awkward, but she managed to clip-clop to the eave, flail the scaling belt around the great pine’s trunk, then thread it behind her back and secure the clasp. And now... She put one spiked foot against the tree, took a breath, then hopped off the eave, sinking the second boot into the bark as well. Simple! All that remained was the incremental process of hitching the belt up several feet, leaning back, then stepping higher with each boot. She used the previous track-marks as a guide.
Ten minutes later she was nearly sixty feet aloft, within the middle of the tree.
Oh, wow! She leaned back, feeling utterly secure by the belt and spikes. She aimed her digital camera, forwarded the zoom, and snapped several stunning pictures of Lake Sladder and the town. She also noticed several tree bowls protruding, a few sporting nests crowded with tiny peeping birds. She took several more pictures.
But the original track-marks that Henry had made...proceeded higher.
Hazel proceeded higher. I’m a natural! she celebrated. Soon, she was nearly a hundred feet up the ancient tree, surrounded by heavy branches. The next series of snapshots would be even better.
She contemplated going higher but noticed that Henry’s track-marks had stopped. Don’t get carried away, she considered. Better to retreat and get back into the cabin; then she could download the pictures into her laptop and see them in better clarity. She was about to do just that, when...
A tree bowl, dinner-plate-sized, stared her right in the face just as she prepared to lower the scaling belt. Yet no bird nest was evident. Instead, the hole within had been filled with something black and–when she touched a gloved finger to it—tacky, like tar...
That tree-patch stuff, she recalled. The empty can had been tossed in the garbage.
The rest was simple deductive reasoning. When Henry had scaled this tree less than a week it ago, he’d done so for the purpose of filling this bowl with patch. However...
None of the other bowls have been patched, she knew. So...
Why had a man nearly sixty, bent on suicide, climbed a hundred feet up this tree, just to patch a single bowl, then go back down and put the climbing gear in the garbage?
At once Hazel pressed a gloved hand into the black semi-shiny surface of the patch material. It hadn’t hardened much; the sun kept it pliable as modeling clay.
There’s something in here, she knew for a fact, and then began to pull out sloughs of the tar-like patch. After digging half of it out and flapping it down to the ground, she felt a bump within the bowl. The bump moved. She twisted her fingers around, then—
Come out, you fucker!
—extracted the tar-covered lump. A thrill pumped through her when she noted its basic egg shape, and its length of four inches and perhaps three in depth.
This HAS to be it! Henry hid it HERE!
The Shining Trapezohedron.
Less than ten minutes later, she was back in the cabin, the scaling gear abandoned. She stood bent over the kitchen counter and commenced with the effort of cleaning the odd stone, first wiping off as much of the tar as possible with paper towels, then scrubbing more meticulously.
A half-hour later, she thought, Fuck! Her wrists and fingers ached. The thin layer of tar that remained would require much more effort to remove completely. I need some kind of cleaner, she resolved. Doing it this way would take forever.
“Oh, there you are,” came Sonia’s groggy voice from behind.
“Shit, sorry, I must’ve woken you—”
“No, no.” Sonia, hair tousled, got a soda from the fridge. “I’ve been sleeping for hours—jeez.”
Hazel looked at her. “Did—” she began, then bit her lip.
“No, I haven’t heard from Frank, that asshole.” Sonia rubbed her eyes. For a woman who’d just had a several-hour nap, she looked, if anything, like she needed more sleep. “It really bothers me.”
Hazel struggled for something to say in consolation but knew there was nothing.
“Anyway, I’m really sorry I abandoned you at Harold’s trailer.”
“Horace,” Hazel corrected. “And it’s okay. You needed your own space. I had—” Circumstance forced her to pause. “I had a nice walk around,” but then thought, Actually, I got raped, beat up, and electrocuted AND I had a ton of orgasms. See how fucked up I am?
“I’m glad,” Sonia said, then squinted at the black lump on the counter. “What is that? ”
“The Shining Trapezohedron, believe it or not.”
“The stone Henry said he got rid of?”
“Um-hmm. Long story short, I found it stuck in a tree bowel and covered with that black tree-tar stuff.”
Sonia chuckled. “So much for Henry’s ‘irretrievable’ disposal.”
“Actually, it was pretty clever. Something he didn’t want found so he hides it close to the house—”
“The last place anyone would think to look. Like Poe’s ‘Purloined Letter.’ But how did you—”
Hazel shrugged. “I lucked onto it,” she said. “But it’s covered with this black stuff and I can’t get it off. I’m dying to see it cleaned up. The jpeg on Henry’s computer was astonishing—the colors, especially—so the real thing will be even better.”
“Tree tar, huh? If you used a Brillo, it might scratch the surface.”
Hazel scrubbed her hands now. “I’ll have to get cleaning solvent—”
“Any hydrocarbon would probably work fine, rubbing alcohol, gasoline—hell, maybe even Henry’s bottle of whiskey.”
“I’ll do it later—my fingers are cramping from all this scrubbing.”
Hazel followed her friend into the front room, where they both sat on the edge of the bed. Sonia was staring off into space.
“Stop worrying,” Hazel whispered. “It’s not good for you.”
“I don’t know if I’m worrying or seething. ” Sonia anxiously clutched her knee. “I’m thinking...that maybe I should just call off the wedding.”
Hazel knew she had to be careful in any attendant remark. “Listen. Sonia. I’m not sticking up for him, but I think that would be a serious overreaction.”
Sonia rubbed her temples. “You’re right, and I do overreact to things but—Jesus!—this really hurts.”
Hazel put her arm around her. “Men are tubesteaks—that’s just the way it is. We put up with their shit and they put up with ours.”
“How fair of you!” Sonia managed a chuckle.
“Just let him get all this Henry stuff out of the way, then he’ll be fine. And if he’s not?” Hazel spread out her hands. “Then we’ll pull his balls off and hang them on the rearview mirror like sponge dice.”
Sonia laughed sluggishly. “I wish I could be as matter-of-fact and sensible as you. I’m going to try, at least.” She stilled herself a moment. “But...isn’t it human nature to be jealous sometimes, or suspicious or insecure or paranoid?”
“Sometimes, sure.”
“And what should I do if he’s not back tomorrow afternoon? What if he calls up again and makes more excuses for not being here?”
“Well...”
Sonia wrung her hands. “If he’s not back tomorrow...I’m going to climb up that fucking summit or mountain or whatever it is and confront him.”
Hazel hugged her. “That’s reasonable, if he’s not back tomorrow afternoon. But you’re not going to go, I’m going to go.”
“Hazel, it’s my headache, not yours.”
“You’re eight months pregnant and have doctor’s orders not to exert yourself,” Hazel reminded. “I actually talked to some people today, about how to get to the cottage.”
“Really?” Sonia asked, surprised.
“Horace says his grandmother told him the place was right at the top where that fog bank is. He also estimated it’d take a half a day just to get up there, so that’s why I’m going, not you.” Hazel felt confident about the task, should it become necessary. “But let’s just give Frank another day and see.”
Sonia nodded. “You’re wonderful, Hazel. I don’t know what I’d do without you...”
The words made Hazel’s head go light. Then she could’ve melted when Sonia kissed her on the cheek.
Please, please, Hazel pleaded.
“I’m just so tired, I don’t get it.” Sonia yawned with a frustrated expression. “I shouldn’t be this tired, especially after the nap.”
“Stress,” Hazel offered. “Worrying about Frank’s got you worn out.” She hugged her, resisted making an advance, then just smiled and said, “Get some more sleep. I’ll wake you up for dinner. I noticed a grill out back—we’ll have a cookout later. I’ll cook you something.”
“Mmm,” Sonia murmured, “you’re sweet...” Then she was asleep again.
Hazel spent the next few hours trying to get Henry’s computer back to rights–to no avail–and another hour after that trying to get all the tar off the Shining Trapezohedron: impossible without some sort of cleaning liquid. She put it out in the car, knowing that in the morning the sun would heat it up and make the tar less adhesive. She truly did want to see the crystal in all its shining spectacle. Later, she drove into town and bought some fresh walleye from a market, plus some asparagus and potatoes. After waking Sonia at six, they’d had a fabulous backyard feast.
But her friend’s distress over Frank’s behavior never let go. Sonia remained distracted and on edge, in spite of an obvious effort not to seem that way. They sat outside till past dark, watched fireflies and listened to peepers, then went to bed.
Hazel essentially winced herself to sleep, first, from trying to banish the obscene dichotomy: the abhorrent things the “Fish Boys” had done to her along with the fact she’d received an extraordinary satisfaction from the foray. Also, being in the bed with Sonia but not being able to make love to her only compounded her frustration. Worse was knowing that last night they’d shared some potent intimacy but, of course...I don’t remember any of it... Several lovers in her past had complained that she talked in her sleep but was also periodically subject to sleep-walking. Last night I guess I was sleep-FUCKING. Consciously missing out on what she wanted so dearly only made her feel more dismal. Eventually, though, she did drift off to the soft hum of the ceiling fans—
—the night cocoons you as you lay naked and sweating in the bed, but all you see is darkness at first. Has the backdrop of your sleeping mind turned into a black chasm? Suddenly your spirit spins propeller-like as huge, wet words croak and echo in the chasm and begin to spin, spin, spin, spin around with your mauled spirit: algolagniac one who receives sexual satisfaction from pain dritiphily sexual stimulation derived from being covered with or in proximity to filth asphyxophile one who longs to be strangled during sex biastiphilia sexual obsession with being brutalized and raped hybristolaglia the desire to engage in sexual congress with degenerates and criminals asthenopagniac one attracted to being humiliated and overpowered and beaten cyesolagnia sexual excitement from pregnant women urophily the compulsion to be urinated on. Then: sick sick sick sick sick
Then:
you you you you you
And round and round you spin as more huge, wet, sloppy words cram into the spiral: Hazel my child I adjure you my dear friend Frank if you’re reading this then I am already dead eat the cum out of the toilet is the key by where the spheres meet this ungodly harlot needs to die full of the cur’s jism anyway uh I hope to hear from you soon and I love you the tenets of Non-Euclideanism have the potential to produce unlimited energy they could transpose objects of unequal weight and mass between two points of vast distance en’t much I’d ruther dew’n piss up a gal’s backside you don’t understand I’ve found still more of Henry’s work up here—it’s spellbinding when a gal gets a pussy full’a Shoggoth cum it don’t take but a minute or two letter weren’t signed just said he represented Henry’s gemolergy friends and they wanted more boxes thought it were a mite foolish a joke mebbe until I opened another envelope inside that had five thousand bucks in it my dreams have turned ghastly indeed tinged by a grotesque carnality unlike anything in my experience sometimes even—I swear—people (or things like people) make utterances in my dreams that reveal information which I verify later en’t never heerd’a no gray cottage yogsothoth and his retinue were are and shall ever be not in spaces known but between those spaces waiting the ghosts of all those dead from the storm follow me everywhere please come back to church come back to God it’s where you belong honey please don’t insult my memory Frank—
—forget that goddamned stone ever existed...
The black blood of the chasm clears and then...you can see. You can see yourself.
“Just got me a hankerin’, yew know? ‘N I carn’t think of a reason not tew.”
“Shit-yeah, Shot Glass!”
“I gotta see what’s in this heer big belly, heh, heh, heh...”
Your spirit plummets when you re
alize you are back in the nefarious shack of the Fish Boys. You sit nude on the rot-wood floor, your sex aching, lines of gelatinous sperm up and down your chest like slug trails, like white snot. You can smell it wafting up–all that sperm spattered on you in sport. Shackles gird your ankles; a chain between them is bolted to the floor. You look up...
“You fuckers! Stay away from her!” you scream bloody murder. “I swear to God I’ll kill both you loser redneck motherfuckers if you lay one hand on her!”
Sonia has been stretched across one of the foul-stained beds, nude, gagged, and shivering in horror. She lay in an X-configuration, ankles and wrists tied to each bedpost. Her great gravid stomach sticks out, gleaming in sweat, the navel popped out like an acorn of flesh.
Shot Glass smooths callused hands over the slick belly. “Heh, heh, heh. Heh, heh, heh,” then his gaze shoots to you. “Weer gonna make this big-belly-bitch give it up, reddy-head.” He stands grinning with his limp cock dangling from his zipper. “And yew get to watch.”
“Yeah!” Clayton rails, giggling and jumping up and down. He stands fat and malodorous as ever, his pants off, fecal smears at his hairy buttocks. He reaches into a can of lard, scoops out a handful, and spreads the pale glop over the end—
“What are you evil cocksuckers doing!” you scream.
—of the clear plastic nozzle that you’re all-too-familiar with. Then he kneels at the edge of the bed and, after some finessing, manages to insert the tube several inches into Sonia’s vaginal canal.
“Take that out of there! Don’t you dare, you sick pieces of shit! Leave her alone!”