Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror (38 page)

The message is:
you've been staring at a clock in a dark room for forty-seven minutes. Because you're on drugs.

The electric hum of the clock envelopes me. Patterns swim behind my eyes, lingering when I open them. Every noise outside is too sharp, ominous. I remind myself that I'm naked every time I think of running outside to confront them.

I drag my nails across the bedspread to study the sound, shift my heels to marvel at the sensation of calluses on rough fabric. I don't know how long I've been drifting when the realization fills me: I'm not alone.

The darkness and its shifting lattice of color doesn't change, but I feel a weight in the room, the gravity of another presence. If I sat up I might see someone there, but my head is too heavy to lift.

'Hello, Beth," Dora says.

And damn it all, my brain produces happy chemicals at the sound of her voice. "What is this thing? A parasite? A symbiote?"

A soft snort of breath, not quite a sigh. A familiar sound that means I've got something wrong. "Any relationship between two organisms is symbiosis," she says. "It can be parasitic or mutualistic or commensal. In this case, it can be all of the above."

What were we?
I want to ask. "Does it kill you?"

"Everything kills you eventually, love. Playing host can shorten a human lifespan, yes. It varies. But in return the fungus takes you into the web. Our memories, our identities—maybe our souls, if you believe in that—are incorporated into a greater whole. They've spored a hundred worlds, encountered thousands of cultures. They’ve seen and preserved things humans can only dream of. They're historians. Archivists. I'll live forever within the colony. Learn forever. Long after every human civilization has fallen to dust."

That old familiar passion suffuses her voice. As always, I envy it.

"How many of these cultures have been archived willingly?"

"More than you might think. Hell, some worship the colony. I don't think that matters to it, though. Like so many relationships, if the practical benefits aren't enough there's a chemical reward to keep you invested."

The dreams feel so good.
Yes. Yes they do
.
"Serotonin. Dopamine. Endogenous opioids." I was a runner once, years ago. I remember how sweet those can be.

"Yes. They make us nervous, those chemicals. We fall into the puritanical trap of believing that anything that feels good must be wrong somehow."

"Will it feel so good that I'll throw myself off a roof to spread the infection?"

"The urge may present itself. They're not
O. unilateralis
, Beth. We're not ants. We can make our own decisions."

I don't know about that—how many people live their entire lives reacting to chemical stimulus and never understanding why?

"Why?" The word echoes from my brain off my tongue. "Why did you bring me here?"

"To spread the infection, silly." I hear the laugh in her voice, imagine her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Because I thought you would appreciate the opportunity, or at least have the capacity to. And because I miss you."

"Where are you?" I grope across the bed, searching for warmth, but find nothing.

"With the colony. I said the timeline varies—mine was short. I pushed. I wanted to see more, so the fungus grew faster. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late to reverse. I wish I could have seen you again, but I wouldn't do anything differently."

Of course not. Dora isn’t a creature made for regret.

Maybe that's what I envy most about her.

§

I stumble back to the Angels' Share the next night. Not quite literally, but gravity isn't working the way it should. Lights are still too bright, oversaturated. Minette only nods and sets a double bourbon in front of me before returning to the regulars. A quiet night, a handful of people at the bar, a couple in a booth across the room. I huddle in a corner, engrossed in the texture of the table, the light reflecting off rows of bottles.

When all the patrons are gone and the chairs put up, Minette returns.

"I'm sorry," I mutter into my empty glass like a coward, before forcing myself to meet her eyes. It's hard to focus—I haven't eaten anything since before the mushrooms. "I didn't mean—"

"Hush." She takes my hand and draws me up. "You look rough. Stay here tonight."

She leads me down a narrow hall in the back, up a flight of stairs. At the top of the steps something changes—her arms slide around me, or mine around her. Her mouth is sticky-sweet, her fragile hands surprisingly strong. She draws away after a long, tangling kiss, both of us breathless. Her eyes gleam in the shadows as she watches me, waiting.

"Yes," I whisper, reaching for her.

We fumble through a dark room and onto a bed that smells like her—sweet, musky, earthen. I'm wet before she tugs my jeans off. One cool hand slides into my bra; the other slips between my legs. I come hard a minute later, gasping, and she laughs.

I pause as I ease her shirt up, and feel her answering tension.

"It's not that," I say. Here in the dark, it's the truth. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

Her skin is cool, roughening as I trail kisses down her ribs. Her breath catches as I make my way back up, to what used to be her left breast.

Cooler than her flesh, and not quite softer, silken and rubbery at the same time. She moans as I run my tongue along the edge of one whorl. Her back arches and the swirl of ridges spreads, opening to my touch. They taste of earth and cinnamon.

Later, I drift awake to Minette spooning against me. Her fingers trace patterns on my shoulders, drawing constellations amid the freckles.

"I won't be here much longer," she murmurs. Her breath ruffles the fine hair on my nape. "But the bar will be. If you need a place—"

I make a noncommittal noise into the pillow and nestle closer. Sleep takes me again before I find an answer.

§

I dream of being cradled in a rosebud, curled tight like a baby waiting to be born. Dora is beside me in the dark. At first it's just her familiar presence, but then images unfurl in the darkness.

She hangs amid a web of soft organic tissue. Shelves and curling fronds and spiraling embroidered ribbons of fungus. Growth like creamy lace sprouts from her skin, envelops her like a bridal gown. She's as beautiful as ever. She smiles at me, and something stirs in response beneath my skin. For once, I'm not alone.

§

Two weeks later I wake to find Minette gone. The keys to the bar rest on the nightstand, on top of a folded note. I don't need to read it to know what's happened.

I sit on the edge of the bed in the curtained gloom, trying to identify that thorny, prickling sensation behind my sternum. Almost grief, but I know that's foolish. I'll dream of her tonight, after all.

§

A week after that, I'm polishing the bar one lazy afternoon when the door chimes. A draft of sticky August heat pushes past the AC.

A young man steps in, squinting against the shadows. He runs a hand through his black curls and adjusts clunky black-framed glasses on the bridge of his nose. He blinks when he recognizes me.

"Dr. Jernigan. Nice to see you again."

"Aaron." His discomfiture makes me smile. But I should probably be nice; we'll know each other a long time. "Call me Beth."

“What are you drawing, honey?”

“Pictures.”

“Can I see? Oh, how nice. Is this your house?”

“Nuh-unh. Is a farmhouse.”

“A farmhouse, yes, I see that… this must be the barn… and what kind of crops are these?”

“Corns.”

“Such tall corn, too. As high as the roof. Do you like corn, Pippa?”

“Not that kind.”

“No? What kind do you like? Corn on the cob? Popcorn? Cornbread?”

“Not that corns! That corns is ucky.”

“Ucky? It’s so green—”

“No! It’s ucky. It’s sick-making corns.”

“What about these things with the… wiggly bits?”

“Them’s carrots.”

“Let’s look at your next picture, shall we? Oh… how… pretty… is this a garden? What kind of flowers are these?”

“I dunno.”

“Have you seen flowers like that, honey? Flowers that… color?”

“I dunno.”

“I didn’t know we had glow-in-the-dark crayons here in the art room.”

“My crayons. My grampy sended them.”

“Your grampy… your grandfather, Mr. Pierce? Is this his farm?”

“Nuh-unh. Look, see, I drawed some cows, and some sheeps, and a horsie.”

“… which ones are the cows?”

“These ones!”

“And this picture is the house again, but what happened to the corn and carrots? They’re all grey.”

“They’s turning into dirt.”

“Dirt?”

“Rock-dirt, all dusty.”

“Whose face is this in the window?”

“The farmer lady.”

“She looks happy, smiling like that.”

“She’s screaming. The farmer man made her go stay in the attic.”

“That doesn’t sound very nice of the farmer man.”

“She was crazy-crazy. And look, I drawed another one, now there’s a crazy boy in the attic too. But this other one, this boy, he falled down the well.”

“Was he hurt when he fell down the well?”

“He died.”

“He drowned?”

“The water was ucky. He died. His little brother died too. See, I drawed their bones in the well. Aminal bones too.”

“Animal bones?”

“Aminals. Here’s a bunny-bunny. Here’s a bird.”

“And what happened to the animals in this next picture? They’re grey like the corn. Are they also turning into dust?”

“Uh-huh.”

“This one… are they having a barbecue?”

“They was gonna eat the pig but it was ucky too. That’s why they gots yuck faces with their tongues stuck out, yuck.”

“I see them making yuck faces. Oh, and you’ve got some more pictures here… what… Pippa, honey, what’s this one?”

“It’s the farmer lady again!”

“She’s…”

“She’s all the colors!”

“Yes… the colors… Pippa, I’ve never seen colors like that.”

“My grampy did.”

“Your grampy saw colors like that?”

“They comed out of a rock.”

“A rock?”

“A rock falled down from the sky and there was stuff in it and the stuff comed out and it was all the colors.”

“Then what did your grampy do?”

“He killed the farmer lady, and the house falled down on the farmer man.”

“What do you mean, your grampy killed the farmer-lady?”

“He did. Then he bringed the doctor and other mens, and allllll the colors comed out of the well and went waaaaay high back up in the sky.”

“Is that… is that what this picture is? The colors… coming out of the well… going up into the sky, into space?”

“Except a little bit falled back down.”

“Fell back down like the rock did?”

“Uh-huh! And that’s what my grampy made my crayons from.”

Part One

Six weeks into her involuntary tenure on Faraday Station, Cynthia Feuerwerker needed a job. She could no longer afford to be choosy about it, either; her oxygen tax was due, and you didn't have to be a medical doctor to understand the difficulties inherent in trying to breathe vacuum.

You didn't have to be, but Cynthia was one. Or had been, until the allegations of malpractice and unlicensed experimentation began to catch up with her. As they had done, here at Faraday, six weeks ago. She supposed she was lucky that the crew of the boojum-ship
Richard Trevithick
had decided to put her off here, rather than just feeding her to their vessel—but she was having a hard time feeling the gratitude. For one thing, her medical skills had saved both the ship and several members of his crew in the wake of a pirate attack. For another, they'd confiscated her medical supplies before dumping her, and made sure the whole of the station knew the charges against her.