Etched Deep & Other Dark Impressions

by David Niall Wilson

  "Yes?" The voice on the other end was gravelly, as though the sounds weren't sliding over a human tongue. He suppressed a shiver.

  "This is Harry O'Flanagan in room 313. Can I get some hot coffee up here? Also, do you know what room Mr. Weissel is staying in? I need to reach him."

  There was a pause, and then the voice returned. "Mr. Weissel is in 242, Mr. O'Flanagan, but I don't believe he's in. He has very particular tastes, and we haven't had an order in almost two days."

  Harry stared at the phone. He knew all-too-well what the special nature of Danny's hunger was, but where could the boy be?

  "Thanks," he said. "Just send up that coffee, then, and I'll see if I can find him on my own. Room 242, you say?"

  "Yes sir," the voice grated. There was a click, a buzz, and when the dial tone returned, he punched the numbers 242 followed by the # sign to connect to Danny's room. They could be wrong. The boy could just be sleeping off a binge of some sort–or maybe he was eating out.

  There was nothing. After ten rings he dropped the receiver back into its cradle and returned to the desk. He plugged the laptop into the high-speed Internet connection, ran through the familiar Plaza login routine, and e-mailed the tick story to the paper, along with his photos and instructions for placement and cropping. When he was finished he turned off the computer, closed it, rose, and headed for the door.

  He stopped as someone knocked. When he opened the door, he found a very pale young man holding a tray with a fresh pot of coffee, two cups, sugar, and a pair of spoons.

  "Room Service," the boy said unnecessarily.

  Harry stood aside and watched as the boy, seeming to glide across the carpeted floor, placed the coffee carefully beside the laptop and came back. Harry reached automatically for his wallet, but the boy smiled and slipped out the door.

  "No need," he said as he passed.

  Harry nodded absently. He'd known, of course, that there was no tipping at the Plaza. He didn't know what had spurred them to such an odd practice, but he hoped the bellboys and waiters were well compensated. He suspected that at least a few of them had a hard time keeping anything solid in their pockets. Not everyone was who or what they seemed in the gray stone walls of the Plaza Hotel.

  'Wait," Harry called. "Do you know Danny Weissel? Room 242?"

  The boy turned. His grin was a shimmer of sharp white teeth, but there was no menace in the expression.

  "Yes, Mr. O'Flanagan," he replied. "He's been with us since last weekend. I haven't seen him today sir."

  Harry thanked him, and the boy disappeared down the hall. The coffee was dark, strong, and fresh. Another thing about the plaza. If you came in at four thirty in the morning, the coffee was as fresh as it was at 8:00 AM or 4:30 PM. It was always the same. Perfect. The first cup went down fast, followed by a second. Harry eyed the pot, started to pour a third, then thought better of it. Instead he grabbed the keys to his room, and his car, and slipped out the door.

  The hallway was empty, as he'd expected it to be. He reached the elevator without encoutering another soul, and when he stepped out on the second floor, it was the same. He followed the arrows to room 242 and stood outside, staring at it and wishing he had X-ray vision.

  He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, then, glancing up and down the hall to make sure he was still alone, he pulled out his keys. Along with those to his car, apartment, and various locks back at the office, a small set of lock picks dangled from the ring. He knew he should get them off of there before he got arrested and the wrong questions were asked, but every time he thought about doing it, they came in handy again. Like now.

  He wasn't at all certain what would happen when he stuck the bent bit of metal into the keyhole. It wasn't like breaking into an apartment back in San Valencez. Here things were never quite what they seemed. He wouldn't have been at all surprised to hear the lock start screaming, or laughing, as if the lock pick tickled it. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, though; he found the old-fashioned tumblers, twisted the lock pick, and he was in.

  The first thing he noticed was that the room was clean. He'd been around Danny enough times to know this was odd. He also noticed that the window was open. A breeze gripped the curtains and sent them dancing to the side. There wasn't much light outside, just a hint of sunlight draining down the sides of the bulidings as it dropped for the night.

  Harry stepped to the window and glanced out. That's when he saw it.

  Danny's window looked out over a dusty alley. Trash cans, beat up dumpsters, and dingy brick walls stretched in either direction. Near the rear of the alley, almost too far away to see clearly, something long and very low to the ground slunk around a corner. At first glance he thought it must be a snake, and a damned big one. He wondered if Cyrus had accidentally lost control of something. Then he looked more closely.

  They were rats. They had formed a line, three or so abreast, and they swarmed forward, their bodies blending and seething en masse. Even after he'd managed to separate them in his mind, it was hard not to see the grisly army of them as a single entity. He'd never seen anything like it.

  He glanced down and saw that it was only a short jump to the fire escape. He wondered how long it had been since Danny took that same leap, but it didn't matter. Whatever was drawing those rats around the corner was a story waiting to be written. He considered rushing back to his room for his camera, but thought better of it. He leaned down, patted his ankle, and felt the reassuring weight of the tiny, 22 caliber strapped beneath his sock.

  "Christ on a stick," he muttered.

  Then he slid his leg over the windowsill, dropped to the metal landing and hurried down the fire escape

  The alley ended in a solid wall, but there was a second, darker alley leading off to the right, and Harry followed it. Twilight had set in, and it was getting increasingly difficult to see the ground in front of him. Images of the swarming rats made his stomach churn and threaten to fill his throat with bile, but he fought it down, trailed his hand over the grimy bricks to keep himself from walking into a wall, or a shadow-drenched dumpster, and moved on.

  There was a very dim glow ahead, and where he'd heard only the breeze before, or the distant roar of an engine, he now heard some kind of music. It was difficult to make it out, at first, partly because it was so low in pitch, and partly because his heart was crashing so hard that the subsequent roar in his ears drowned out everything beyond the confines of his head.

  The melody was familiar, and it drew the hairs at the back of his neck up like the hackles of a spooked dog. There was no sign of the rats, but with the glowing light becoming brighter at each step, he didn't need to see them. In fact, he prayed fervently not to see them again until he was safely out of the alley and back in his room, or even in Danny's.

  The smaller alley ended, much like the larger one, and this time the opening to the right was a doorway. It was dark, and he couldn't see if there was a sign or any marking above the door. It was open, and the light he'd seen emanated from within. The music was there, as well. It didn't really seem louder, and yet the sound filled his mind. He fought for concentration. He focused on images of Cyrus, the giant tick, went over story plot lines in his mind and tried humming discordant, irritating versions of Barry Manilow's greatest hits. Anything to disrupt the humming, buzzing drone of the "music" drifting out of that door.

  He leaned inside. From the doorway he heard scraping, scratching sounds. He concentrated on these, even though he knew what they must be. He thought about the tiny, furry bodies, long whiskers and beady eyes. He saw long, pink, worm-like tails winding around and over, in and out.

  Harry leaned down and pulled his gun free of the ankle holster and slipped through the door. He crouched low and pressed to the nearest wall. The sounds within didn't change at his entrance. The music played on, and the soft, scrabbling footsteps drew no closer. He stook a step forward, then another, feeling along the wall with his left hand and clutching the gun in his right. It felt light, inadequ
ate, and almost silly, and he was afraid the sweat on his palms would cause it to fall free and clatter away into the shadows.

  He reached a stair, and very slowly, he descended toward the light. Shadows danced below, and the music–some kind of flute, or pipes–had been joined by a voice. Or had it been there all along? Subtle melodies ran together and blended, scurried and trilled, and to his horror, he realized that the footsteps, the tiny scratches of claws on–what, concrete?–kept time with the song. They were like a rippling percussive rhythm that gave the illusion of holding the sound in place, but was in fact captured within it.

  Harry didn't know how he knew this. He didn't even want to think about it, but the thoughts were insidious, invading his mind and pushing away each block of images, or memories, that he placed in their way. The sound wanted him as well. It wanted him to drop to hands and knees, slip into the thronging bodies below, and disappear.

  He stopped a few steps from the bottom. He saw a river of rats–an ocean of them–undulating over a floor that might have been another foot down, or ten feet, all fur and bodies, claw and teeth. Their bright eyes were glazed with a dull sheen and they stared mindlessly forward. Harry turned and followed their gaze.

  On a raised stone platform a man stood, hunched and curled around a long, wooden flute. The figure didn't look up. Long hair dangled to the floor, where thousands of rats rippled up and over the stone edge, then back down, parting that hair, circling the feet–the legs. And right beside him, head thrown back in ecstasy, moving very slowly, Danny danced.

  The boy was enthralled. His eyes had the same unseeing glaze as the rodents beneath him. He moved with a liquid, thoughtless grace, and the sight of it sickened Harry to the core.

  Before he could think about what he was doing, he opened his mouth, and he began to sing. At first it was impossible to make out the words. They tangled with the flute, and the skittering, chirruping rats, but he fought it. Harry was a decent Irish tenor, and when he put his lungs behind it, he could belt out drinking songs with the best of them, or do his part to see that the walls of the church needed re-plastering every few years.

  He didn't sing a drinking song in that basement room. He didn't sing a hymn. He ignored the musician, and the rats, and stared at his friend, lost in the dance on the stage. Drawing the words and the melody up from his past, he sang them pure, sweet, and as loudly as his lungs would allow.

  "Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling."

  There was a rustle among the rats. The musician's elbow, held up high so he could finger the flute more easily, twitched. Harry sang on.

  "From glen to glen, and down the mountain side."

  The cadence of the rats feet faltered. Danny stopped dancing for a second, shook his head, and when he tried to find the rhythm again, he spun too close to the figure beside him, slapping the flute awkwardly from the man's lips.

  The room grew silent. Harry opened his mouth to sing the next verse, but found he could not get the sound to exit his throat. He stared, transfixed, as the creature–he'd thought it was a man, but no man had eyes that wide, or that deep–glared at him. It straightened and took a step closer.

  All around them the rats fell into a panic. Without the sound to draw them, their minds sought food, and shelter. They felt the confines of the room and the cool air at their backs, up the stairs to freedom.

  Harry had seen too many bad horror movies to just stand there and wait for what came next. He lifted the gun, aimed it at the thing's face, and pulled the trigger.

  The echo of the shot crashed thorugh the room, and the rats broke like a wave. Harry heard Danny cry out, heard him scream something from very far away, but he had no time to think about it. He turned, and tried to run back up the stairs. Rats poured aorund his legs, scurried over his hips and up his shirt, dangled from his hair and dashed over him. He staggered, bounced off the wall, climbed another few steps with a curse, and then–overwhelmed, he went down hard. He didn't feel an impact, but the breath was knocked from him, all the same. He tried to call out. He tried to stand, but there was motion all around him. The musky, rat stench choked off his breath. With a croaking groan, he dropped away to darkness.

  When he woke, he was seated in his hotel room at the Plaza. Danny sat across from him, watching. Harry started to shake his head, stopped himself just in time as the headache threatened, and instead leaned forward with a groan and cupped his face in his hands.

  "You okay?" Danny asked. "I had a hell of a time hauling you back down the alley. Once I got here one of the doormen helped me load you on a luggage cart, and I rolled you to the elevator. I told them you'd had too much to drink, but I don't think they believed me."

  "What happened?" Harry asked. "That…thing. What was it?"

  "I'm not sure," Danny said. "I have thoughts on the matter, but you'd say I've been reading too many bedtime stories. What in God's name made you waltz in and start bellowing like that? Not that I'm not grateful…"

  Harry glanced up. Danny's eyes twinkled. His elongated nose twitched, and one lip curled back, exposing long, gleaming teeth. Harry shivered.

  "I need a shower," he said.

  Danny laughed. "Don't you want to write the story first?"

  Harry stopped and stared.

  "While it's fresh in your mind, I mean?" Danny insisted. "I got it started for you right here."

  Harry turned to see where his friend was pointing. The laptop stood open on the desktop, and a headline had been typed in bold italic script across the top of a blank page.

  "Rat Boy fights off Pied Piper, Saves Irish Reporter from bad Singing Career."

  Harry growled and swung, but Danny ducked easily, laughing.

  "Have I told you, Danny," he said as he ducked into the bathroom and headed for the shower, "how much I hate rats?"

  The Rat Boy laughed, and Harry shivered. In the sound of that laughter, tiny feet skittered, and the distant echo of a long, wooden flute echoed through the shadows.

  "Christ on a stick," he muttered. "I have got to get a new job."

  He stayed under the hot, steaming water a very, very long time, but he thought he'd never rid himself of the fetid, musky smell.

  A Poem of Adrian, Gray

  Endless spirals,

  Ending.

  Don Quixote tilting windmills

  of loneliness and doubt

  against a sunrise backdrop

  of hope, sliding relentlessly toward

  hopeless.

  Solitary fortress

  fortified by brief glimpses...

  Synapse images of

  Dreams half-feared and

  Desires molten through

  Indecision

  To the soul.

  Dangling carrot perfection

  Slides easily through

  timorous groping talons

  of self-imposed inadequacy.

  Chemically bandaged mind

  Driving drained and broken frame,

  Buying time/love/nothing

  Until the 2000th time

  A day is born

  and truth and reality

  merge - reform- destroy

  And twist in endless spirals,

  Ending

  Wayne's World

  (For Wayne Allen Sallee)

  I stood alone among the crowds that had gathered outside the prison, watching in ways they could not, and waiting. I was celebrating the death of John Wayne Gacy, but not in the manner that the rest of them were, or not in the manner that I assumed they were celebrating. I assumed that they were happy because they felt, foolishly, a bit safer. I assumed, as well, that it was a moment of control for them, a moment in which the evil of the world could be labeled, restrained and in due time erased–wiped out forever.

  This latter idea amused me. The "moment of control" theory is one of the prevalent ideas on the motivation of sociopathic killers. It makes sense. It also makes a hell of a mirror for these people to look into if they ever realize why they came down to witness thi
s killing. A sociopathic society?

  The control angle is a fantasy. The evil had been diminished not one bit by John's departure from their midst, whatever they might believe. The good guys were not winning. The good guys couldn't win. If there were no bad guys, there wouldn't be any good guys. Try and explain that to your average citizen, lost in his own little empty-headed world. Try and explain that to anyone, for that matter. Lord knows, I've tried.

  But that's what it's all about, isn't it? Our own little worlds. Every one of them is different, separate, and distinct. Don't fool yourself into believing otherwise; it's a waste of time. You live in your world, I live in mine, and never the twain shall meet. Period.

  Gacy had his world–right up until the end. He had it wrapped tightly around him like a cocoon. They've been studying him for several years now, psychologists, psychiatrists, penal reformists; none of them seem able, or perhaps willing, to see the truth of it. They are trying to analyze an alien landscape by referencing the only thing they have to reference, their own little world. That's right. They can't see the light for the trees, so to speak–their own trees.

  Sometimes a whole group of worlds seem to align. This is what they call a society. It isn't a true picture, but it lets the weak and unimaginative sleep better at night. When a group of people truly believe that what they see and what their neighbor sees in any given moment are the same, they have deluded themselves. If you give the same coffee, morning paper, and bus-ride to work to twelve different people, the entire scheme of events, actions, and reactions will be absolutely different in each case. Different worlds. Odds are the criteria you use to ascertain this will be based on your own world, so I wouldn't trust your data much on this, either.

  Take that newspaper we just mentioned, the one our "control" group read over breakfast. Let's say there's an article covering a killing on the front page–top center, headline in bold print. "Police Apprehend Alleged Kidnapper/Slayer of Three." This story will not contain facts–not by pure definition. It will contain the impression that society has agreed upon as fact–the majority opinion.