The Collected Short Fiction by Thomas Ligotti Part 26

The place was one of indefinite character. Stepping inside, he received a not unwelcoming glance from a man who was adjusting some objects on a shelf across the room, and who turned briefly to look over his shoulder at the foreign visitor. At first this man, who must have been the proprietor, was barely noticeable, for the color and texture of his attire somehow caused him to blend, chameleon-like, into the surrounding decor. The man became apparent only after showing his face, but after he turned away he retreated back into the anonymity from which he had been momentarily summoned by the intrusion of a customer. Otherwise there was no one else in the shop, and, left unbothered by its invisible proprietor, he browsed freely among the shelves.

What merchandise they held. True curiosities in a thousand twisting shapes were huddled together on the lower shelves, met one's gaze at eye level, and leered down from dim and dusty heights. Some of them, particularly the very small ones, but also the very largest ones crouched in corners, could not be linked to anything he had ever seen. They might have been trinkets for strange G.o.ds, toys for monsters. His sense of freedom intensified. Now he was nearly overcome with the feeling that something unheard of could very possibly enter his life, something which otherwise might have pa.s.sed him by. His sensation was one of fear, but fear that was charged with the blackest pa.s.sion. He now felt himself as the victim of some vast conspiracy that involved the remotest quarters of the cosmos, countless plots all converging upon him. Hidden portents were everywhere and his head was now spinning: first with vague images and possibilities, then with... darkness.

What place he later occupied is impossible to say. Underground, perhaps, beneath the shop with the peculiar merchandise. Thenceforward it was always dark, except on those occasions when his keepers would come down and shine a light across the full length of his monstrous form. (The victim of a horrible magic, the guide would whisper.) But the shining light never disturbed his dreams, since his present shape was equipped with nothing that functioned as eyes.

Afterward money would be collected from the visiting spectators, who were sworn to secrecy before they were allowed to witness this marvel. Still later they would be a.s.sa.s.sinated to insure the inviolable condition of their vow. But how much more fortunate were they, meeting their deaths with a fresh sense of that exotic wonder which they had travelled so far to experience, than he, for whom all distances and alien charm had long ago ceased to exist in the cramped and nameless incarceration in which he had found a horrible home.

The Career of Nightmares (1994).

First published in its original form in Crypt Of Cthulhu #68, 1989 as 'Nightmare Horror', a section of Studies In Horror.

Also published in this revised form in: Noctuary.

No one knows how entrance is made; no one recalls by what route such scenes are arrived at. There might be a soft tunnel of blackness, possibly one without arching walls or solid flooring, a vague streamlined enclosure down which one floats toward a shadowy terminus. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a light flares up and spreads, props appear all around, the scenario is laid out and learned in an instant, while that ingress of blackness-that dull old tunnel-is unmemorized. On the other hand, perhaps there is no front door to the dream, no first act to the drama: a gallery of mannikins abruptly wakes and they all take up their roles in mid-speech, without a beginning to go back to.

But the significant thing is not to begin but to continue, not to arrive but to stay. This is the founding condition, the one on which all others are grounded and raised: restriction, incarceration is the law of the structure. And this structure, an actual building now, is a strange one; complete in itself, it is not known to be part of a larger landscape, as if perfectly painted mountains had been left without a lake or sky on a wide white canva.s.s. Is it a hospital? Museum? Drab labyrinth of offices? Or just some nameless... inst.i.tution? Whatever it may be outside, inside... for those who have important business there-it is very late, and the time has somehow slipped by for a crucial appointment.

In which room was it supposed to take place. Is this even the right section of the building, the correct floor? All the hallways look the same-without proper lighting or helpful pa.s.sersby-and none of the rooms is numbered. But numbers are of no a.s.sistance, going from empty room to empty room is futile. That vital meeting has already been missed and nothing in the world can make up for this loss.

Finally, a kind of climax is reached in the shadows beneath a stairway, where one has taken refuge from the consequences of failure.

And within this apparent haven there is an entirely new development: mult.i.tudes of huge spiders hang ill drooping webs above and around you. Your presence has disturbed them and they begin to move, their unusual bodies maneuvering about. But however horrible they may be, you know that you need them.

For they are the ones who show you the way out; it is their touch which guides you and reminds you how to take leave of this torture. Everyone recalls this final flight from the nightmare; everyone knows how to scream.

The Physic (1994).

First published in Noctuary, 1994.

Another party, this time very remote: a sprawling old house at the edge of a wood, moon-stabbing pines in the background. Everyone was very ill-looking, the worst I've seen, but elegant somehow. The wax-faced women wore long gowns with long sleeves ending in satin gloves; dark stockings covered what little I could see of their legs; and what hair they had left was used to veil, with pathetic spa.r.s.eness, the jaundiced and tallowy flesh of their foreheads, jaws, and cheekbones. Elaborate eye make-up helped them enormously. The men resorted to dark gla.s.ses and large hats with ample and somewhat limp brims. At least most of the men so equipped themselves (this time!), and the ones who didn't I deeply wish had. All were holding champagne gla.s.ses with delicate crystal stems and galaxies of bubbles in their bowls, but of course even such dainty gla.s.sware seemed to burden those thin and hard-to-control hands. Frequent spills were to be expected, though as always they did their best to keep this to a minimum. I witnessed two such mishaps which soaked the front of their poor victims' expensive evening clothes, and I'm sure there were many more. Fortunately the champagne was a colorless liquid (the doctor showing great considerateness in this detail), and only left a wet patch which dried up soon afterwards.

I decided to wear dark gla.s.ses for once, but my full head of well-groomed hair still made me stand out in the crowd. The doctor spotted me almost immediately and guided us into a quiet corner.

"You could have also worn a hat, you know," he scolded.

"You never wear either hat or gla.s.ses," I replied. "And I've always meant to ask why you keep that thick beard of yours. It must be a source of despair for every man in this room, myself excepted."

"I'm their doctor. Though they may occasionally despise me for it, in their hearts they're glad I'm not as they are. How do you like this party?"

For some reason I didn't bother with the usual lies. "You can't really expect me to be enthusiastic," I said, but the doctor pretended not to hear. Odd as it may seem, I think he actually has a host's pride in his handling of these sad affairs. While my own composure can only be attributed to a morose need of the good doctor's money, he himself appears to be genuinely at ease with the horrible.

"You're a little early tonight, aren't you?" he asked, glancing at his watch.

"You want me to leave?"

"No, not at all. It's just that, well, you can see how nervous they're getting now that you're here. I think they thought there would be more time. You could show a little feeling anyway."

"And what if I did," I said in a tense whisper. "Do you really believe that would help matters?"

He knew it wouldn't and said nothing in reply.

"You want me to get lost for a little while?" I said, my hand discreetly hooding the words. The doctor nodded gravely. "I think I'll just wander around the upstairs of this nice big house. Call up to me or something when you want me to start."

He scratched his beard audibly, which I took as my signal to take my leave.

Upstairs much longer than ever before. Lights didn't work. Sat in a trapezoid of moonlight for many silent moments.

Began to get worried and came downstairs before getting the doctor's go-ahead.

It was quiet, much too. The doctor squatted on the landing of the staircase, his face buried in his hands. He was half-sobbing to himself, saying: "Wrong, wrong, all wrong."

"What happened?" I asked. "Where is everybody?"

"They all ran out the back door," he said, pointing. "They must be down by the lake by now."

'"No problem," I said consolingly. "I'll just finish things there."

He stared at me straight in the face, and I didn't like the look in his old surgeon's eyes.

"You don't understand."

"What do you mean?" I asked without having to.

"They still have much of their brains left," he answered, also without having to. But I did not expect him to add: "And mouths, too. Mouths that can speak to you."

There was, of course, every reason for my not hesitating another second, for not thinking about it at all. I proceeded quickly, though not wildly, toward the door at the back of the house; but by the time it slammed itself behind me, I was running as fast as I could down to the lake in the pines. The moon overhead was full and bright and beautiful.

I followed the voices which mingled with the sounds of the wind. When I reached the lake, I saw them all scrambling along the sh.o.r.e. But some of them had already begun that kind of dancing which is so dreadful to watch: none of them was larger than a dinner plate and their multiple radiating legs (with pincers by now) made them look like unholy pinwheels spinning in the moonlight. Very dreadful. And the doctor was right, they still had much of their brains left. Too much... they knew what was happening to them. Not like the other times. And they did have their mouths, yes indeed, right in the middle of their brittle pink bodies. When my presence became generally known, they began scuttling around my feet.

"Kill us, kill us," they chanted in their many tiny voices. "Kill us before we change more. Some of us are dancing ones. Some of us have gone into the lake forever. Kill us, please, kill us."

"That's what I'm here for," I said, but only to myself.

I picked up a few heavy rocks and went to work. I think I got most of them, too. Later, when I returned to the house, I told the doctor I had got them all. He didn't challenge me on it. Needed to believe me, poor man. Also, he promised to take precautions to insure that this kind of thing would never happen again. Gave me a bonus that seemed to make it all worthwhile.

The Demon Man (1994).

First published in its original form in Crypt Of Cthulhu #68, 1989 as 'Demonic Horror', a section of Studies In Horror.

Also published in this revised form in: Noctuary.

Even in the darkness they seemed to linger, halftone freaks parading translucent until they faded with the dawn. Eyes open or closed, the lamp glowing or not, he felt that they were threatening to pa.s.s over the threshold and manifest themselves on the other side of sleep. Their faces would begin to darken the air, and then dissolve. The light in his room momentarily molded itself into fantastic limbs that slipped in and out of the glare of his eyegla.s.ses. A draft grew thick and foul, gusting briefly against his cheek.

In the morning he drifted pale from his home, another night exacted from him by disfigured masters, a little more of himself sliding into the black mirror of dreams. At first he would regain some of his losses of the previous night, but less of his own life was being returned to his possession. Their presence was now with him, an invisible mist surrounding him and distorting his senses. The streets he walked seemed to slant beneath his feet; a scene in the distance would be twisted out of all earthly shape, suggesting the remote lat.i.tudes of nightmare. Voices whispered to him from the depths of stairwells and the far corners of hallways. Somehow the ravelling clouds carried a charnel odor which pursued him back to the door of his home and into his sleep.

And into the dreams he fell, helplessly skittering down slanted streets, tumbling down stairwells, caught in a mesh of moldering clouds. Then the faces began to float above him, sharp fingers reaching into his flesh. He screamed himself awake. But even in the darkness they seemed to linger.

Finally he was chased from his home and into the streets, walking ceaselessly until daybreak. He became a seeker of crowds, but the crowds thinned and abandoned him. He became a seeker of lights, but the lights grew strange and led him into desolate places.

Now the lights were reflected in the black, shining surface of wetted streets. Every house in that neighborhood was a battered, cracking vessel of darkness; every tree was perfectly still. There was not another soul to companion him, and the moon was a fool.

They were there with him. He could feel their scabby touch, though he could not see them. As long as he walked, as long as he was awake, he would not see them. But someone was pulling at his sleeve, a frail little man with eyegla.s.ses.

It was only an elderly gentleman who wanted to be shown the way along these dim streets, to exchange a few remarks with this grateful stranger, one so eager for company on that particular evening. Finally the soft-voiced old man tipped his hat and continued slowly down the street. But he had walked only a few steps when he turned and said: "Do you like your demon dreams?"

And into the dreams he fell... and forever.

The Puppet Masters (1994).

First published in its original form in Crypt Of Cthulhu #68, 1989 as 'Puppet Horror', a section of Studies In Horror.

Also published in this revised form in: Noctuary.

The one sitting all c.o.c.k-eyed was telling me things. Of course its soft and carefully sewn mouth was not moving, none of their mouths move unless I make them. Nonetheless I can still understand them when they have something to say, which is actually quite often. They have lived through things no one would believe.

And they are all over my room. This one is on the floor, lying flat on its little stomach with its head propped within the crux of its two hands, a tiny foot waving in the air behind. That one is lazily sprawled high upon an empty shelf, leaning on its elbow, a thin leg of cloth peaked like a triangle. They are everywhere else too: in the fireplace that I would never light; in my most comfortable chair which they make seem gigantic; even under my bed, a great many of them, as well as in it. I usually occupy a small stool in the middle of the room, and the room is always very quiet. Otherwise it would be difficult to hear their voices, which are faint and slightly hoa.r.s.e, as might be expected from such throats as theirs.

Who else would listen to them and express what they have been through? Who else could understand their fears, however petty they may seem at times? To a certain degree, then, they are dependent on me. Patiently I attend to histories and anecdotes of existences beyond the comprehension of most. Never, I believe, have I given them reason to feel that the subtlest fluctuations of their anxieties, the least nuance of their cares, have not been accounted for by me and given sympathetic consideration.

Do I ever speak to them of my own life? No; that is, not since a certain incident which occurred some time ago. To this day I don't know what came over me. Absent-mindedly I began confessing some trivial worry, I've completely forgotten what it was. And at that moment all their voices suddenly stopped, every one of them, leaving an insufferable vacuum of silence.

Eventually they began speaking to me again, and all was as it had been before. But I shall never forget that interim of terrible silence, just as I shall never forget the expression of infinite evil on their faces which rendered me speechless thereafter.

They, of course, continue to talk on and on... from ledge and shelf, floor and chair, from under the bed and in it.

The Spectral Estate (1994).

First published in its original form in Crypt Of Cthulhu #68, 1989 as 'Spectral Horror', a section of Studies In Horror.

Also published in this revised form in: Noctuary.

One may be alone in the house and yet not alone.

There are so many rooms, so many galleries and mysteries, so many places where a peculiar quiet resounds with secrets. Every object and surface of the house seems darkly vibrant, a medium for distant agitations which are felt but not always seen or heard: dusty chandeliers send a stirring through the air above, walls ripple within patterns of raised filigree, grimy portraits shudder inside their gilded frames. And even if the light throughout much of the house has grown stale and become a sepia haze, it nevertheless remains a haze in ferment, a fidgeting aura that envelops this museum of tremulous antiquities.

So one cannot feel alone in such a house, especially when it is a remote edifice which clings to the very edge of the land and hovers above a frigid ocean. Through an upper window is a view of coastal earth falling away into gray, heaving waters. The lower windows of the house all look into the rustling depths of a garden long overgrown and sprouting in prolific tangles. A narrow path leads through this chaotic luxuriance, ending at the border of a dense wood which is aroused to life by a mild but perpetual wind. Ocean, garden, learn to become intoxicated by the mood of mystery itself, by the odor of the unknown. We are entranced by the subtle scents and wavering reflections of the unimaginable.

In the beginning it is not our intention to seek order within madness or to give a name to certain mysteries. We are not concerned with creating a system out of the strangeness of that house. What we seek-in all its primitive purity-is the company of the spectral. But ultimately, as if possessed by some fatal instinct, we succ.u.mb to the spirit of intrigue and attempt to find a drab focus for the amorphous glories we have inherited.

We are like the man who, by some legacy of fate, has come to stay in another old house, one very much like our own. After pa.s.sing a short time within the cavernous and elaborate solitude of the place, he becomes a spectator to strange sights and sounds. He then begins to doubt his sanity, and at last flees the advancing shadows of the house for the bright shelter of a nearby town. There, amid the good society of the local citizens, he learns the full history of the house. (It seems that long ago some tragedy occurred, an irreparable melodrama that has continued to be staged many years after the deaths of the actors involved.) Others who have lived in the house have witnessed the same eerie events, and its most recent guest is greatly relieved by this knowledge. Faith in his mental soundness has been triumphantly restored: it is the house itself which is mad.

But this man need not have been so comforted. If the spectral drama could be traced to definite origins, and others have been audience to it, this is not to prove that all testimony regarding the house is unmarked by madness. Rather, it suggests a greater derangement, a conspiracy of unreason implicating a plurality of lunatics, a delirium that encompa.s.ses past and present, houses and minds, the claustral cellars of the soul and the endless s.p.a.ces outside it.

For we are the specters of a madness that surpa.s.ses ourselves and hides in mystery. And though we search for sense throughout endless rooms, all we may find is a voice whispering from a mirror in a house that belongs to no one.