Gathered Dust and Others (24 page)

“Your strange new thing…”

“Missing,” he said, shrugging.  That was all; he offered no explanation or conjecture.  I felt a peculiar sadness, and a kind of panic that I did my best to conceal.  We stood in the hallway, examining each other.  He looked resplendent in black tux and cloak.  The only red was in the contact lenses placed over his eyes.  He grinned at my ghoulish makeup, showing two sharp fangs.  Together, we entered the ballroom.

And an alternative world, a diabolic one.  The crowd was much as I had expected, beautiful boys in scarlet gowns, masculine women in coat and tails.  Somber music was piped in the room from unseen speakers, and bowls of incense filled the place with fragrance.  From one darkened corner I espied Alisha, who smiled and slightly bowed.  She was magnificent and original as the Lamanite king, Amalickiah.  My eyes feasted on her indigenous beauty as I stepped to her.  With masculine courtesy she offered me her hand to kiss.

The room was like some fantastic phantasm.  The walls had been elegantly covered with drapery of ebony and maroon velvet.  Cushions of similar shade littered the floor, upon which groups of youngsters sexually explored each other.  I watched as from one of these groupings a young figure arose.  Despite the wild orange wig I recognized him as a lad who oft frequented my bookshop and who had a fascination for the yellow decadence of the late Victorian age.  I was charmed to see him dressed after Beardsley’s splendid work of ink and color wash, “The Slippers of Cinderella.”  He took from his apron one of the disintegrating roses that had been pinned thereon, and this he offered me with benedictional bow.  “To the Great Lord Thanatos, the only god before whom I grovel,” he declaimed.  I took his flower, cupped my hand below his chin and pulled him to me.  His breath reeked of champagne.  Bending to him, I kissed him hard.

“Well,” Jonathan muttered, “how swiftly you get into the swing of things.  Come, I’ve a special concoction just for you.”  He led me to a serving station at which a manservant poured dark liquid from a sparkling silver coffee pot.  I took the delicate cup proffered me and brought it to my nostrils, breathing in the brandy with which the coffee had been laced.  Normally I had no stomach for liqueurs, but on this night I refused to be a prude.  I sipped, and smooth delicious nectar spilled into my mouth, warming my face.

Time passed.  After a number of coffees I fell upon a cushion and smiled idiotically at the surrounding sexual frolic.  Finally, Alisha clapped her hands and the music ceased.

“Mesdames et Messieurs, the Dance of the Seven Veils.”

True decadence crept into the room.  What they were, I could not fathom.  I had read somewhere of a race of cannibalistic semi-human dwarves who dwelled in some plateau somewhere in Central Asia.  These creatures could have hailed from such a tribe.  The twisted features of the hateful faces had a sobering effect.  They profoundly repulsed.  I watched as the ones who carried flute instruments sat in semi-circle and placed their pipes to misshapen mouths.  The room was filled with discordant piping.  A diminutive figure wound in flowing veils danced into the room.  Its gyrations moved in rhythm to the esoteric music, and one by one the veils gradually fell from its stunted torso.  I saw the small dry breasts and the twin genitalia both male and female. 

People began to hoot and applaud as Alisha slowly danced toward the nude monstrosity, holding a silver platter on upturned palms.  A sheet of black silk covered the object that tilted on the platter.  Ally knelt before the bestial gnome and I watched as the creature removed with knobby fingers the covering of silk.  I had, of course, read Wilde’s play, and thus I expected to see a grisly replica of the head of Iokanaan.  Instead, I beheld a sphere of blue metal.

Shrieking pierced the room.  Rushing wildly to his sister, Jonathan took the sphere, clutched it to his heaving breast and dashed madly from the place, into night.  Trembling, I arose from my cushion.  Figures surged around me, shouting cries of drunken confusion.  Blindly, I ran from the scene, seeking silence and solitude.  Instinct led me to the lonesome library, with its soothing and familiar world of books.  Ah, the wondrous scent of ancient paper bound in leather.  And there was the large leather sofa, where on more than one occasion I had slept when allowed to spend late nights pouring over Jonathan’s volumes.  Moaning with aching pleasure, I staggered to the sofa and fell upon it.  Happily, I succumbed to dreamless slumber.

A delicate hand smoothed my hair and pulled me out of sleep.  Alisha sat beside me on the edge of the sofa.  “What time is it?” I asked.

“Almost dawn.  Everyone’s gone.”

Swiftly, I sat up.  “Jonathan!”  She shrugged.  “What on earth do you mean by that absurd motion?”

“He’s vanished.”  Her face was pale, but her eyes very dry.

”Then we must find him!  He has – that thing!”

“It can wait.  You need more rest.”  Her voice was soothing, calming, hypnotic.  I tried to protest, but her hand – so smooth and white – pressed against my lips.  “Hush.”  Groaning in suitable demurral, I allowed myself to sink again into the depths of delicious somnolence.  Alisha hummed a haunting melody, one that would have disturbed me were I not so fatigued. 

When again I awakened, I was alone. I felt rested, yet worried.  Something, some unwelcome sensation, had shaken me from slumber.  And then I heard it, from outside, the sound of whistling.  And my blood froze, for the dissonant din was identical to the horrid music that had been played by that gang of goblins on their evil flutes, played to the sphere of blue metal.  I pushed out of the sofa, stumbled over my long scarlet robe and hurried to the library door.  All was hushed.  The dull light of early dawn was skulking through the high windows.  Fearfully, I found my way outside.  The air was cold and very still. 
I saw the figure who knelt within the pagoda.  I went to her.  How strangely she smiled as I approached.  I wanted to speak to her, but some unspeakable horror kept me numb and silent.  I bent my knees and joined her on the ground.  Leaning toward me, she pressed her cool mouth to mine.  She puckered and exhaled.  Both she and Jonathan were skilled at whistling, with a tone that was sharp and forceful.

“Please,” I begged her.  “Stop.”

She did not heed me, but rather gazed into the early light, her eyes suddenly rapt with wonder.  The chimes above us began to sway.  I turned.  The thing stood just outside the pagoda.  I took in the dark torn garments.  It had lost its splendid cloak.  The long dark hair was too caked with blood to stream in the growing gale; some of it was crudely wound around the metal hook that pushed out of the top of the human head.  One crimson contact lens still covered a wide dead eyeball.  The open mouth was imbued with gore, and from that orifice there came a low unearthly sound of moaning air.  Here and there the flesh of the face was torn, showing the blue metal beneath the skin, the damnable blue metal that had somehow conjoined with once-living tissue.

Alisha’s lips pressed against my ear.  “It hungers for our hot mortal air.”  Like a thing possessed she rose.  I was too deadened with terror to try and stop her as she walked to that which had once been her brother.  My blood was icy sludge, my limbs heavy with immeasurable horror.  I watched as the young woman pressed her mouth to the mutation’s outrageous visage.  How oddly her frail body jerked; what ghastly noise rattled from her pretty mouth.  At last she fell before me.  I wept to see that she was a lifeless shell, her once-lovely mouth bruised and blue.

The thing towered above me, not moving; yet somehow I felt it beckon me.  I heard from beneath the dead face a noise of ravenous air, air not of this earth.  Sobbing, I shut my eyes, trying to exorcise the nightmare before me.  On my eyelids I could see the tendril shadows of swaying chimes, and my ears took in the music of wood on wood, metal on metal, glass on glass.  Most horrible of all, I could feel the hunger of the thing that summoned.

I opened mine eyes.  I stretched my sensitive limbs and rose.  I lurched to that shell of dilapidated humanity that had once been my friend, but was now my awful, my inescapable doom.

A Vestige of Mirth

The thing before me shook with vulgar motion as it vomited hilarity.  Its absurd mop of tangled hair fell before wide blank eyes, and its torso jiggled so violently that I expected the dummy to slip from its chair.  Backing away from the large cabinet of wood and glass which housed the mammoth toy, I smiled; and then all motion ceased, the thing stood dead still.  My nickel’s worth of time was up.

The round man behind the counter grinned with impious glee and softly chuckled.  “My granddaddy made it ‘fore I was born, when he built this store in ’78.  It was a modern wonder back then, pulled in huge crowds.  Great for business.  Course, back then it worked with pumps.  My daddy rigged it so it’d work with ‘lectricity.  Somethin’ else, ain’t it?”

“It is indeed, Walter,” I agreed, glancing at the nickel slot and fighting the temptation to watch once more.  The old man gazed at me with wide eyes set deep within a rubbery face, and then he pushed buttons on an antiquated cash register and totaled my bill.  Opening my wallet, I gave him money.  He eyed the food and drink that I had purchased as I dropped them into my backpack.

“Gonna take in some sights, are ya?”

“Yep, I want to hike some country.  Thought I’d follow the railroad tracks along the riverside and head for those distant hills.”

“You want to watch out for rattlers, Joe.  It’s crawling with snakes up there.  Ain’t tryin’ to put you off or nuthin’, but jest be careful.”

“Will do, Walter, thanks.”  Turning to the door, I moseyed outside, squinting at pale autumn sunlight.  A cool breeze was blowing from the river.  Pulling on my backpack, I strolled toward the water until I came upon rusty railroad tracks.  In the few days that I had been in this small town, I hadn’t heard or seen a train go by, and so I assumed that the line was not in use.  Happily, I hopped onto one of the rails, balancing as I walked with arms outstretched.  I had been quite adept at this when a kid, but adulthood had dulled my talent.  Slipping onto dirt and rocks, I bent to pick up a smooth round stone, which I tossed over the river’s surface.  I walked for an about an hour, following the tracks until they turned away from the river and headed into an area of rocky hillside.  Cautiously, I scanned the ground and nearest hills for snakes, but saw no living thing.  The air grew still, which I found odd; surely the breeze I had experienced would sail between these hills of red rock.  But nothing stirred, and I slowly sauntered through the hushed surroundings, until at last the hills were behind me and I looked out onto a great expanse of flat open land. 

The curious object stood still in the distance.  At first I thought that it was a derailed freight car of odd design; but as I approached it I saw that the metal wheels were not intended for railroad tracks.  The wooden surface had once been painted yellow, but now a faint remnant of color covered the splintered wood.  Spectral letters formed a name that was too faded to make out, large though the letters had been.  This was obviously some kind of carnival car, from a sideshow that had long ceased to exist.  As I neared a doorless entryway, an unpleasant meaty odor assailed my nostrils, and I wondered if an animal had somehow become trapped inside and was rotting in death.  Gingerly, I leaned into the doorway and peered into a world of curious horrors.  Shelves had been built into the walls, and on one long shelf I saw a series of mannequin heads covered with deteriorating rubber masks, the decaying pieces peeled and bent like the brittle leaves of a dead plant.  On another shelf I saw a series of fantastic bestial forms, creatures of ludicrous combinations that looked like the work of some insane artist who had a talent for creating macabre fakes.  How strangely realistic they looked, these concoctions; how brightly their black eyes beamed, reflecting the sunlight that filtered through the great holes in the compartment’s roof.

I heard no sound of movement, saw no sign of feasting vermin.  Placing my hands flat on the wooden floor, I heaved myself into the car.  My clumsy feet stumbled as I rose to a standing position, and my arms grabbed the nearest object in order to prevent my fall.  The object before me was an old kinetoscope, such as I had seen in curio museums.  I knew that this neglected and timeworn gadget couldn’t possibly work, especially as there was no source of electricity; and yet I couldn’t resist rummaging through my pants pocket for loose change.  Feeling foolish, I dropped a nickel into the coin slot and gasped as the machine began to whir and creak.  Hesitantly, I pressed my forehead against the padded leather of the peephole.  I saw nothing but blackness, and supposed that the machine’s source of inner illumination had long expired.  Yet, as I continued to watch, lulled by the mechanical purring, I detected a suggestion of moving shadow in the blackness into which I peered.  Something fumbled and flowed, expanded closer to the viewing glass.  It seemed, this crimson-tainted blackness, to bubble, as if hungry to leak into my eyes.  Frantically, I backed away and blinked at sunbeams. 

The antique gizmo shuddered and died.  My panic subsided.  Again, I became aware of a rancid stench, and when I looked behind me its source was discovered.  There, on a long low table, was a grouping of large glass jars.  The pulpy objects inside them gently swirled in thick ruddy liquid.  As if on cue, one of the soft spongy things paused in circulating and bumped against its glass prison.  I thought at first that it was a variation of the weird rubber masks, albeit one of more lifelike rendition.  I didn’t like its wide liquid eyes, and I felt peculiarly nonplussed by its idiotic smile.  As I gazed at the wretched thing, its carrion smell seemed to increase, filling my mouth with bile.  Hurriedly, I rushed to the doorway and jumped onto solid ground, heaving spit and air.

Beneath my retching I heard another sound, a curious kind of music.  It brought to mind a damaged jack-in-the-box from my poverty-stricken childhood.  The tune that played as I gently turned the crank was distorted, seemingly incomplete.  The mindless music that fumbled from the other side of the car was of a similar nature.  Beguiled, I sought the source of sound, feeling again the sense of fear I knew as a child that turned a little crank and waited for the macabre jester to pop out of its box.  What I suddenly beheld was no less clownish.  I could not fathom what the figure was supposed to be.  At first glance it suggested a sad-faced hobo clown I had once delighted in while attending a circus; and although the creature before me now was dressed in hobo fashion, it certainly was not melancholy.  Rather, this darkly dressed buffoon joyfully pranced to the warped music, clapping large white hands as it shook with jocundity.