The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories

by Jeff Vandermeer; Ann Vandermeer

  He heard himself say, ‘Three thousand. If you include the cage.’ And it was true, he realized – he wanted the cage.

  The solicitor, trying to mask some small personal distress now, giggled and said, ‘Done. But you must retrieve it yourself. I’m not well.’

  A sour smell had entered the room.

  On the ladder, Hoegbotton experienced a moment of vertigo. The world spun, then righted itself as he continued to the top. He peered onto the windowsill.

  Something stared at him from beside the cage.

  A horrible ‘uhh!’ sound came from his mouth, and he recoiled, almost lost his balance as he flailed at empty air, managed to fall back against the ladder…and only then realized that what he had seen were just the missing marble eyes of the swan. Placed there by some prankster, or…? He caught his breath, tried to swallow the unease that pressed down on his shoulders, his tongue, his eyelids.

  The cage stood to the right of the ladder and he was acutely conscious of having to lock his legs onto the ladder’s sides as he slowly leaned toward the cage.

  Below, the solicitor and the boy were speaking, but their voices seemed dulled and distant. He hesitated. What might be in the cage? What horrible thing far worse than a human ear? The odd idea struck him that he would pull the cord to reveal Thomas Daffed’s severed head. He could see the bars beneath the cloth, though. Whatever lived inside the cage would remain inside the cage. Now that it was his property, his acquisition, he refused to suffer the same failure of nerve as a Slattery or an Ungdom.

  The cover of the cage, which in the dim light appeared to be sprinkled with a luminous green dust, opened like a curtain. With a sharp yank on the drawstring, Hoegbotton drew aside the cover – and flinched, again nearly fell, a sensation of displaced air flowing across his face, as if something moved within.

  But the cage was empty. He stood there for an instant, breathing heavily, staring into the cage. Nothing. It contained nothing. Relief came burrowing out of his bones, followed by disappointment. Empty. Except for some straw lining the bottom of the cage and, dangling near the back, almost as an afterthought, a perch that swayed back and forth, the movement no doubt caused by the speed with which he had drawn back the cover. A latched door extended the full three feet from the base to the top of the cage and could be slid back on special grooves. Stained green, the metal bars featured detail-work as fine as he had ever seen – intricate flowers and vines with sinister little figures peering out of a background rich with mushrooms. He could sell it for four or five thousand with the right sales pitch.

  Hoegbotton looked down through a murk somehow encouraged by the few lamps.

  ‘It’s empty,’ he shouted down. ‘The cage is empty. But I’ll take it.’

  An unintelligible answer floated up. As his sight adjusted to the scene below, the distant solicitor in his chair, the other two still standing, he thought for a horrible second that they were melting. The boy seemed melded to his suitcase, the green of it inseparable from the white of the attached arm. The woman’s nubs were impossibly white, as if she had grown new bones. The solicitor was just a splash of green.

  When he stood on solid ground again, facing them, he could not control his shaking.

  All around, on the arms of the chairs, on the table, atop the bookcase, white mushrooms had risen on slender stalks, their gills tinged red.

  ‘I’ll have the papers to you tomorrow, after I’ve catalogued all of the items,’ he said. No, he wouldn’t. He knew that now.

  The solicitor just sat in his chair and giggled uncontrollably.

  ‘It was nice to meet you,’ Hoegbotton said, unwilling to let any of them out of his sight as he backed slowly across the room to the door that led to the next room and the room after that and then, hopefully, the outside, by which time he would be running.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes,’ the solicitor said, and giggled again, his face as green and wrinkly as lizard skin.

  The woman’s stubs had sprouted white tendrils of fungus that lazily wound their way around the dried blood and obscured it. Her eyes were slowly filling with white.

  Hoegbotton bumped into the damaged table and almost fell. He edged toward the door, groping behind him for the knob. ‘I will see you again, soon, and under better…under better…’ He could not finish his sentence.

  The boy’s arms were dark green, fuzzy and indistinct, as if he were a still-life made of points of paint on a canvas. His suitcase, once blue, had turned a blackish green, for the fungi had engulfed it much as ivy had engulfed the eastern wall of the mansion. All the terrible knowledge of his condition shone through the boy’s eyes and yet still he held his mother’s arm as the white tendrils wound round both their limbs in an ever more permanent embrace.

  Hoegbotton later believed he would have stood at the door forever, hand on the knob, the solicitor’s giggle a low whine in the background, if not for what happened next.

  The broken clock groaned and finally struck midnight. The shuddering stroke reverberated through the thousands of jars of preserved animals. The solicitor looked up in sudden terror and, with a soft popping sound, exploded into a lightly falling rain of emerald spores that drifted to the floor with as slow and tranquil a grace as the seeds of a dandelion.

  Outside, Hoegbotton tore off his mask, knelt, and threw up beside the fountain that guarded the path back to Albumuth Boulevard. Behind him, across a square of dark green grass, watched over by the current ruler’s grim-looking soldiers: the bodies of Daffed, his daughters, his other son, smoldering grey and black. The charred smell mixed with mildew and the rain that stippled his back. His arms and legs trembled with an enervating weakness. His mouth felt hot and dry. For a long time, he sat in the same position, watching pinpricks break his reflection in the fountain. He shivered as the water shivered.

  He had never come this close before. Either they had died long before he arrived or long after he left. The solicitor’s liquid giggle trickled through his ears, along with the soft pop of the spores. He shuddered, relaxed, shuddered again.

  When his assistant Alan Bristlewing questioned, as he often did, the wisdom of taking on such hazardous work, Hoegbotton would smile and change the subject. He could not choose between two conflicting impulses: the upwelling of excitement at pursuit of a mystery and the desire to flee Ambergris and return to Morrow, the city of his birth. As each new episode receded into memory, his nerve returned, somehow stronger.

  The boy’s arm, fused to his suitcase.

  Holding onto the lichen-flecked stone lip of the pool, Hoegbotton plunged his head into the smooth water. The chill shocked him. It prickled his skin, cut through the numbness to burn the inside of his nose. He reared up, and a sob escaped him, and another, and then a third that bent him over the water again. The back of his neck was suddenly cool. When he pulled away, he looked down at his reflection – and the mask he had made to hide his emotions was gone. He was himself again.

  The cage stood beside him, slick with rain. Hoegbotton had gripped its handle so hard during his escape – from every corner, Daffed’s infernal collection of dead things staring innocently at him – that he had been branded where the skin had not been rubbed off his palm. He bore the mark of the handle: a filigree of unfamiliar symbols from behind which strange eyes peered out. In the fading light, with the rain falling harder, the fungi appeared to have been washed off the cover of the cage. Perversely, this fact disappointed him. With each new encounter, he had come to expect further revelations.

  Hoegbotton stood up. Across the courtyard, the unfortunate soldiers assigned to the bodies had begun to nail boards across the doors and windows of the mansion. One look at his face as he had staggered to safety had told them everything. No doubt they would have boarded him in too, if not for his continual bribes and uncanny ability (in their view) to avoid contamination.

  No one pulled the shades open to protest being trapped inside. No one banged on the door, begging to be let out. They had already begun their journey.
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  Hoegbotton wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. In truth, all he had done was steal a cage. Depending on what hysteria-induced rules the city’s leaders had adopted this fortnight, the mansion grounds might be cordoned off or the mansion itself put to the torch and the merchandise he had ‘acquired’ go unnoted except in his ledger of ‘Potential Acquisitions Lost.’

  The woman’s blank gaze.

  Blinking away the rain, Hoegbotton let out a deep breath, stuffed his mask in a pocket, wrapped the cloth around his injured hand, and picked up the cage. He would have to hurry to beat the curfew, a measure he did approve of. Ambergris at night the past few weeks, made difficult by the constant rain, had played host to an unnerving amount of debauchery. Days of wholesome trade and other industrious activity became the mirror opposite after dusk, as if the gray caps’ presence had had other effects. Orgies had been reported in abandoned churches. Grotesque and lewd water puppet shows were staged down by the docks. Weekly, the merchant quarter held midnight auctions of paintings that could only be termed obscene.

  The clock struck midnight.

  The cage made him list to the side as he started walking up the path to the main road. Whenever he stopped to switch the cage from his left to his right hand and back again, the weight never seemed the same, at first heavier than he remembered it, and then lighter.

  Hoegbotton’s wife Rebecca was already asleep when he walked up the seven flights of stairs and entered their apartment. She had turned off the lamps because it gave her the advantage in case of an intruder. The faint scent of lilacs and honeysuckle told him the flower vendor from the floor above them had been by.

  A dim half-light shone through from the living room to his left as he set down the cage, took off his shoes and socks, and hung his raincoat on the coat rack. Directly ahead lay the dining room, with its mold-encrusted window, the purple sheen burning darkly as the rain fed it. He had checked the fungal guard just a week ago and found no leakage, but he made a mental note to check it again in the morning.

  Hoegbotton found a towel in the hall closet and used it to dry his face, his hair, and then the outside of the cage. Again picking up its uncomfortable weight, he tiptoed into the living room, the rug beneath his feet thick but cold. A series of dark shapes greeted him, most of them items from his store: Lamps and side tables, a couch, a long low coffee table, a bookcase, a grandfather clock. Beyond them lay the balcony, long lost to fungi and locked up as a result.

  The fey light almost transformed the living room’s contents into the priceless artifacts he had told her they were. He had chosen them not for their value but for their texture, their smell, and for the sounds they made when moved or sat upon or opened. Little of it appealed visually, but she delighted in what he had chosen and it meant he could store the most important merchandise at the shop, where it was more secure.

  Hoegbotton set the cage down on the living room table. The palms of his hands were hot and raw from carrying it. He took off the rest of his clothes and laid them on the arm of the couch.

  The light came from the bedroom, which lay beyond the living room. He walked into the bedroom and turned to the left, the closed window above the bed reflecting back the iridescent light that came from her and her alone. Rebecca lay on her back, the sheets draped across her body, exposing the long, black, vaguely tear-shaped scar on her left thigh. He ran his gaze over it lustfully.

  Hoegbotton walked around to the right side and eased himself into the bed. He moved up beside her and pressed himself against the darkness of the scar. An image of the woman from the mansion flashed through his mind.

  Rebecca turned in her sleep and put an arm across his chest as he moved onto his back. Her hand, warm and soft, was as delicate as the starfish that glided through the shallows down by the docks. It looked so small against his chest.

  The light came from her open eyes, although he could tell she was asleep. It was a silvery glow awash with faint phosphorescent sparks of blue, green, and red: shivers and hiccups of splintered light, as if a half-dozen tiny lightning storms had welled up in her gaze. What rich worlds did she dream of? And, for the thousandth time: What did the light mean? He had met her on a business trip to Stockton, after the fungal infection that had resulted in the blindness, the odd light, the scar. He had never known her whole.

  A joyful sorrow rose within him as he watched the light emanating from her. They had argued about having children just the day before. Every word he had thrown at her in anger had hurt him so deeply that finally he had been wordless, and all he could do was stare at her. Looking at her now, her face unguarded, her body next to his, he could not help loving her for the scar, the eyes, even if it meant he wished her to be this way.

  2

  The next morning, Hoegbotton woke to the fading image of the woman’s bloody bandages and the sounds of Rebecca making breakfast. She knew the apartment better than he did – knew its surfaces, its edges, the exact number of steps from table to chair to doorway – and she liked to make meals in a kitchen that had become more familiar to her than it could ever be to him. Yet she also asked him to bring back more furniture for the living room and bedroom or rearrange existing furniture. She became bored otherwise. ‘I want an unexplored country. I want a hint of the unknown,’ she said once, and Hoegbotton agreed with that sentiment – up to a point.

  There were things Hoegbotton wished would stay unknown. On the mantel opposite the bed, for example, lay those of his grandmother’s possessions that his relatives in Morrow had sent to him: a pin, a series of portraits of family members, a set of spoons, a poorly copied family history. A letter from his sister Emily had accompanied the heirlooms, describing his grandmother’s last days, which had not been without pain, perhaps deservedly so. But even Hoegbotton had recoiled from the ghoulishness with which Emily had described her wasting away. He had not gone to the funeral. He had not even brought himself to tell Rebecca about the death, six weeks before. All she knew of it was the crinkling of the envelope as he had smoothed out the letter to read it, that he’d brought a pin and spoon home from the store. Telling her would have meant explaining why he hadn’t gone to the funeral.

  The smell of bacon and eggs spurred him into a bathrobe, and a bleary-eyed stumble through the living room to the kitchen. A dead sort of almost-sunlight – pale and lukewarm – suffused the kitchen window through the purple mold and thin veins of green. A watermark of the city appeared on the glass: wavery spires, forlorn flags, the indistinct shapes of other apartment buildings.

  Rebecca stood in the kitchen, spatula in hand, framed by the dour light. Her black hair was brightly dark. Her dress, a green-and-blue sweep of fabric, fit her loosely. She was intent on the skillet in front of her, gaze unblinking, mouth pursed.

  As he wrapped his arms around Rebecca, a sense of guilt made him frown. He had come so close last night, almost as close as the boy, the woman. Was that as close as he could get without…? The question had haunted him throughout his quest. A sudden depth of emotion arose from nowhere, and he found that his eyes were wet.

  Rebecca snuggled into his embrace and turned toward him. Her eyes looked almost normal during the day. Flecks of phosphorescence shot lazily across the pupils.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked. ‘You came home so late.’

  ‘I slept. I’m sorry I was late. It was a difficult job this time.’ When he had to lie to her, even his thoughts became very still.

  ‘Profitable?’ Her elbow nudged him as she turned the eggs over with the spatula.

  ‘Not very.’

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  He stiffened. If she’d been there, would Rebecca have realized the mansion had become a deathtrap? Would she have smelled the blood, tasted the fear? He served as her eyes, but would he deprive her anything by not describing its horrors in every detail?

  ‘Well…’ he began. He shut his eyes. The sick gaze of the solicitor flickering over the scene of his own death. Even as he held Rebecca, he could feel a dis
tance opening up between them.

  ‘You don’t need to shut your eyes to see,’ she said, pulling out of his embrace.

  ‘How did you know?’ He knew what she would say.

  ‘I heard you close them.’ She smiled with grim satisfaction.

  ‘It was sad,’ he said, sitting down at the kitchen table. ‘Nothing terrible. Just sad. The wife had lost her husband and had to sell the estate. She had a boy with her who kept holding on to a little suitcase.’ The remnants of the solicitor floating to the ground, curling up like confetti. The boy’s stare fluttering between him and the cage. ‘I felt sorry for them. They had some nice heirlooms, but most of it was already promised to Slattery and Ungdom. I didn’t get much. They had a nice rug from Morrow, from before the Silence. Nice detail of Morrow cavalry coming to our rescue. I would have liked to have bought it.’

  She carefully slid the eggs and bacon onto a plate and brought it to the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. She had burned the bacon. The eggs were too dry. He never mentioned it. She needed these little sleights of hand, these illusions of illumination. It was edible.

  ‘Mrs. Bloodgood took me down to the Morhaim Museum yesterday,’ she said. ‘Many of their artifacts are on open display. The textures were amazing. And the flower vendor visited, as you may have guessed.’

  Rebecca’s father, Paul, was the curator for a small museum in her home town of Stockton. Her father liked to joke that Hoegbotton was just the temporary caretaker for items that would eventually find their way to him, while Hoegbotton had always thought museums hoarded that which should be available on the open market. Rebecca had been her father’s assistant until the disease stole her sight. Now Hoegbotton sometimes took her down to his store to help him sort and catalog new acquisitions.