The commuter rail disgorged its passengers, and Enoch climbed a series of steps to the level of Bridge Street. The sky was bright blue, the air crisp but not biting, and the city with its quaint tree-lined streets, brick sidewalks and many historic buildings seemed bent on coaxing Enoch into giving it another chance.
Still, with the city in the grip of its annual “Haunted Happenings,” it wasn’t long before its indigenous spooky folk and the influx of spooky pilgrims became manifest. Enoch gave an inward groan…and yet, many of these creatures, both male and female (and often it was a challenge to differentiate), were as fetching as they were ludicrous in their dramatic black outfits, their abundance of improbable jewelry, their extreme hairstyles and makeup, their piercings and tattoos. Perhaps he would rent a room here in town and stay the night after his business had been conducted, so that he might partake a bit of the exotic fauna. Once again, Enoch Coffin was reminded that he was often drawn to that which repulsed him, and repulsed by that which attracted him. Once again, reminded that the only clear-cut black and white he knew was the relationship between ink and white paper.
II.
When Enoch arrived at the rented shop space that housed the temporary Gallery of the Grotesque, the purchaser of his artwork was already there waiting for him, presently in conversation with one of the artists who had organized the showing. Introductions were made, after which the artist excused herself to return to her duties at the front admission desk, leaving Enoch and his new patron alone.
This person had been introduced to Enoch as Walter Mason, who appeared to be about thirty. “Appeared,” because there was a curious ambiguity about him that allowed for the possibility that Mason was ten years younger, or ten years older. In addition, he was androgynous in appearance, even his soft voice lost between the masculine and feminine, his long black hair falling about a face so pale that Enoch wondered if the man wore whitening foundation. He had the look of a geisha who had let down her hair, and even cloaked his tall frame in a long black robe like a kimono. Ah, Salem.
“Oh, Mr. Coffin!” Mason cooed, at last slipping his hand from Enoch’s own after having prolonged their handshake. The man wore long black velvet gloves that disappeared up the sleeves of his robe. “I cannot express my gratitude that you agreed to meet me in person! Your piece is so exquisite and so important to me -- like a sacred thing! -- that I didn’t even want to touch it with my own hands until you yourself removed it from the wall for me.”
“I’m flattered,” Enoch said politely.
“I’m not in possession of a bank account, so I trust that cash will be acceptable?” Mason reached inside the front of his robe and drew out a bundle of money, pressing it into Enoch’s hands. “Three thousand dollars. Please count it.”
“No need. Thank you.” Enoch stuffed the wad into the pocket of his brown suede jacket. Though unchallenged, he somehow felt the need to explain, “I charged conservatively, considering that the work itself took about thirty hours in total.”
“I can believe it -- such an intensity of detail! Worth every penny; there’s no need to explain. But I ask, is pen and ink your preferred medium? I see you represented here with oils, as well.”
“Oils are my preferred medium, though I’ve sought versatility in regard to my art.”
“And so you have achieved it! But I myself find your pen work, in the pieces represented here at least, to be the most impressive. Shall we move on, into the presence of your masterworks themselves?”
“After you.”
They walked across polished wooden floorboards into another of the rooms, Mason’s feet making sharp clacking footfalls under the flowing hem of his robe. Did stiletto heels account for some of his height?
They came to the white-painted wall where hung five of Enoch’s artworks: two oils, an acrylic painting, and a duo of pen and ink drawings. Both pen and inks were similarly dense in detail, though one relied more on pointillism while the other utilized a crosshatching technique.
“Escher has nothing on you, sir!” Mason gushed, sweeping his arm toward the two drawings -- the smallest of the five pieces -- framed under glass. “I daresay, not even Piranesi with his Carceri etchings captures such a hellish sense of vast and otherworldly architecture…such mind-bending geometries. Are you a trained architect, as he was?”
“I learned some drafting in school, but I never studied as an architect. You’re very insightful; I will admit that Piranesi was one of my inspirations for these.” Enoch didn’t go on to reveal what other inspirations he might have had -- such as his dreams.
“But they’re very much your own, certainly! How did you envision such scenes? Did you sketch them out first, or just let your pen take you where it would?”
“The latter. I suppose I worked mostly from the subconscious.” Again, Enoch felt disinclined to discuss the dreams he had experienced during the period in which he had worked on these two recent drawings, and several more in the same vein that he had opted not to include in the showing.
As if through fresh eyes, Enoch turned to face his drawings again, particularly focusing on the one with the obsessively intricate crosshatching that Mason had just acquired.
As Mason had indicated, both portrayed strange environments. The one done in pointillism illustrated an exterior view of a complex, gigantic city -- seemingly abandoned and falling into ruin -- while the one Mason had purchased revealed the interior, perhaps, of one of those cyclopean structures. Its ceiling soared impossibly high, while an overabundance of staircases and ramps crossed the scene, leading everywhere and nowhere. Shadows and light cut in from every direction, in angled planes and curved arches, creating an eye-straining interplay of black and white, line and absence of line -- a maddening web of geometries.
No figures populated the exterior cityscape, but Enoch had placed a single person in the interior drawing, at its center, like a fly caught in that mad web. The figure was distant, barely a silhouette, apparently regarding the viewer as the viewer regarded it. Enoch couldn’t even remember consciously deciding to include the lone inhabitant. As he had said, much of his approach to this series of drawings had been to trust his subconscious to take the reins.
But there had also been a recurring solitary figure in the dreams he had experienced, some weeks back, that had first inspired this pen and ink series. He remembered little more about the figure, though, than what he had captured here.
Mason cut into this thoughts with further praise. “Normally the guidelines of perspective anchor two-dimensional art in the laws of reality, but here you’ve used the mathematical laws of perspective subversively, against their own purpose. On a flat page, you’ve managed to convey dimensions beyond what can be plumbed!”
“You’re very kind. You’ve articulated my intentions.”
“My compliments are well deserved. But Mr. Coffin, may I impose upon you for one more favor? Could you, with the hands that gave life to this masterpiece, remove it from this wall and carry it to my home, and once there hang it again for me? My house is only a short, pleasant walk from here, I promise you. I feel that my own crude aura would only sully the magic of your creation. Call it superstition.”
Once more Enoch gave his patron a polite smile. Was this the opening overture of a seduction? He was not yet desirous of Mason in that way, but he wouldn’t rule out the possibility. Anyway, it wasn’t a bad feeling to be appreciated for his work, nor a bad feeling to have three thousand dollars in his pocket, and so he replied, “Yes, certainly. Lead on.”
Enoch took down his picture from the wall, and thus carrying it under one arm accompanied Mason outside, where they traversed the brick-paved sidewalks of Salem, upon which Mason’s feet clacked sharply.
III.
“How fortunate you are,” Enoch observed, “to own such a lovely home, in such a location.”
“Yes, yes,” Mason agreed, “I am.”
The house they arrived at was situated just down the street from the museum called the Witch House, f
ormerly the abode of Judge Jonathan Corwin, who had been involved in the Salem witch trials.
Mason’s house itself was narrow but long, with one of its ends facing onto Essex Street. Its roof was in the gambrel style, with two sloping surfaces to each side. There were three floors, including the attic. As they passed through a white picket fence to reach a door at the side of the house, a voice cried out behind them and they paused to look around.
“Mr. Mason,” called an elderly woman from the thin strip of yard at the side of the house next door, separated by another length of white fence, a rake in her hands with which she had been gathering autumn leaves. “How has your uncle been? Still unwell?”
“Yes, yes, afraid so,” Mason replied, smiling. “I’m still seeing to his needs. Hopefully he’ll be up and around again soon.”
“Please tell him I asked about him, will you?”
“Of course, of course, I will. Good day, Mrs. Howe.”
The old woman waved, and Mason turned away. Enoch followed suit, and waited while his host unlocked the side door.
As Enoch started to follow Mason inside, he saw that the mailbox affixed beside the door was overflowing. He reached in, pulled out a thick handful of material, and glanced at a mailing label stuck to a coupon brochure, printed with the name SAMUEL CORWIN. When he was inside he held the bundle toward his patron. “You’ve been neglecting your uncle’s mail, I’m afraid.”
“Oh yes, yes, how forgetful I am,” Mason said, accepting it and depositing it immediately onto a side table. “I’ll go through it later.”
“So it’s not your house, then.”
“Ah, no, I don’t actually own it. My uncle has lived here in Salem for many years, and when he fell into ill health he summoned me to come and look after him, in return for which he takes care of my needs as well.”
“Such as purchasing art?”
Mason’s lips, too red in his pallid visage, pulled into a tight smile. “He doesn’t care what interests I pursue with the money he so graciously grants me.”
“Do you have a sizable collection?”
“I’ve only collected one item previously, but surely today marks a more valuable acquisition.”
“Again, I’m flattered.” Enoch held up the framed drawing. “So where did you intend to hang it?”
“My uncle provides me a room in the attic; I’d like to hang it there.”
“The attic? Such a large house, and your uncle lives alone, but you stay in the attic?”
“Oh, it’s a lovely large room in fine condition -- you’ll see. It’s my own choice; my uncle gave me free rein. I happen to love attic rooms…so artistic.”
“Well,” Enoch conceded, “my studio is in the attic of my home in Boston, and of course it’s my favorite room in the house, so I can understand your sentiments.”
“But let me show you,” Mason said, leading Enoch toward a staircase.
“So your uncle must have been related to Judge Jonathan Corwin, then,” Enoch said as he followed Mason, who clumped loudly up the stairs.
At the second floor, Mason turned toward his guest and smiled curiously.
“I saw your uncle’s name on his mail,” Enoch explained. “Corwin, not Mason.”
“Yes…he’s my uncle on my mother’s side. And yes, my uncle is a descendant of the judge. But we can’t ourselves judge Corwin too harshly, since we’re unsure today of the extent of his role in the witchcraft investigation, and what his feelings were on spectral evidence.”
Enoch was familiar with the term. Spectral evidence was evidence not based upon hard fact, but upon visions and dreams. Spectral evidence at the Salem witch trials had consisted of such testimony as the alleged victims of the accused witches claiming that so-and-so had harassed them in a vision, in the form of an animal for instance. The Reverend Cotton Mather, who happened to be buried in the graveyard opposite Enoch’s home in the North End of Boston, had recommended that spectral evidence be heard in the trials, but had advised that it could be the Devil himself in such dreams, merely pretending to be the accused witch.
Discussing this matter further, Mason said, “The Devil -- ha. Humans always try to put their tiny anthropomorphic face upon the mysteries of the universe, eh, Mr. Coffin? I’m sure a sensitive soul like yourself, so obviously more finely attuned to the cosmos, understands how foolish such notions as the Devil are. The common ape confuses his own evil with the forces of the universe, in an attempt to place that evil outside himself, but the cosmos is not malign; the cosmos is indifferent. Cosmic entities would be no more evil than is a spider who traps a fly.”
“You speak of humans as if to distance yourself from them.”
“Ah, if only we could, eh, Mr. Coffin?” Mason smiled more broadly than he had as yet done, and Enoch could understand now why his smiles had been more subtle before. The man’s small teeth appeared quite black, more so than decay would account for. Perhaps it was another intentional aspect of his dramatic appearance. Geishas covered their teeth with black wax, so that their teeth would not appear yellow in contrast with their white faces, so perhaps Mason was going for something of a geisha effect, after all.
They continued up the next flight of stairs, and when they arrived at the attic level Mason again turned to face Enoch and said, “As it happens, on my father’s side we’re related to another person involved in the Salem witch trials, though her name is much more obscure. I believe a concentrated effort was made to eradicate mention of her from the record books.”
“And who would that person be?”
“Her name was Keziah Mason, and though she hailed from Arkham she was one of those accused of witchcraft in Salem. She was no doubt the only authentic witch among those poor folk.”
“Why do you say she was an authentic witch?”
“Well, in her testimony at the trial she made mention of curious practices that might be dubbed, for lack of a better word, magical. Such as utilizing, in her words, ‘lines and curves that could be made to point out directions leading through the walls of space to other spaces beyond.’ But she was not hung with the rest, because she mysteriously escaped from the jail. The Reverend Cotton Mather was quite perplexed, I understand, by what she left behind in her cell.”
“Which was?”
“According to the only remaining document, which seems to have been suppressed, what Mather observed was, ‘curves and angles smeared on the grey stone walls with some red, sticky fluid.’” Mason chuckled in that soft voice of his. “Perhaps in her own way, Keziah Mason was something of an artist, herself.”
IV.
“This is where I dream,” Mason said oddly.
The attic had not been finished into an apartment as Enoch might have expected from Mason’s words; its beams and rafters were open and bare, motes of dust swimming in rays of sunlight slanting in through its few windows. It did show signs that Mason inhabited it, but his bed was no more than a mattress without a box spring or frame, pushed against one wall. Candles had been burned in abundance upon an old steamer truck, melted pools of wax standing in a profusion of saucers and other containers. Books were stacked about the room, many of them almost crumbling into dust. Such features as the candles and books, however, did in fact put Enoch very much in mind of his own house’s attic.
Because of the house’s gambrel roof, the angles of the long, single attic room were interesting. But most interesting was one corner in particular, not far from the mattress. Here, it was plain that newer pieces of wood had been nailed, spanning the space from one corner wall to the other, and from the floor to the sloping ceiling, in overlapping layers…but surely not for a practical purpose such as lending the roof further support. There were two-by-fours, wider planks, even lengths of thin doweling, crisscrossing in a kind of intricate wooden web. Further, lines had been painted upon these wooden pieces in a red pigment. The planks allowed a broader surface for some of these markings to form curves. Depending upon where one stood to regard the composition, these red lines intersected
in different ways.
“So, you’re an artist yourself,” Enoch observed, “rather in the manner of your ancestor, Keziah. I have to admit, now, that I have heard of her history before.”
Behind him, Mason said, “Really? But I shouldn’t be surprised. You obviously have much arcane knowledge. You couldn’t create such artwork, otherwise. It cannot be accident or mere intuition, your ability.”
Where Enoch stood there was a concentrated icy draft, like a cold steel knife blade pressed flat against his leg even through the material of his trousers. Looking down at the ancient steamer trunk beside him, he noted a red light glowing from within, showing through cracks and peeking out here and there under the lid.
With a cocked eyebrow, he turned from the trunk to face Mason, and found that his host had shut the attic door. Painted upon its inner surface in the same red pigment was a large odd symbol of overlapping circles, lines, and tiny lettering in an alien script.
“If you would be so kind as to remove your drawing from its glass and frame,” Mason said, as he pulled the long velvet glove from his right hand. In so doing, he revealed odd tattoos on both the upper surface and his palm. Red lines ran down each finger, top and bottom, and the natural grooves in his palm had been traced in red as well, though overlapping circles and more alien lettering had also been added. When he removed his other glove, Enoch saw that his left hand had been identically tattooed.
“Do you have a better frame to showcase it in?” Enoch asked, feigning innocence.
“Yes. There.” Mason pointed beyond Enoch, at the wooden web in the corner. “I’d like you to nail the drawing in the center of the widest plank, there. I’ll help direct you. You’ll find a hammer and nails on the floor directly below.”
“You can’t do it yourself, because of your tattoos. Why, Mr. Mason?”
“I told you -- I don’t want to disturb your magic with my own.”
Encounters with Enoch Coffin Page 6