Tales From The Belfry

offer any new insights into his work, didn't exchange any fresh philosophical views. It was as if the people around him were hypnotized, seduced by the mere sound of his voice. I watched them more carefully and saw it in their faces. The eyes were riveted on the man, but glazed and distant. The mouths were held slack and moronic. I had the distinct feeling that if one of the rapt listeners were asked to describe the conversation the next day, he or she would be hard-pressed to recall it at all. Sted, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly what effect his presence had on the crowd. He seemed almost to be toying with the people, manipulating them and playing them as one would a giant musical instrument of some kind. It was fascinating.

  During a lull in the talk, Sted happened to glance my way. The oddest sensation passed over me as his eyes met mine. His face took on a look of such utter contempt and loathing that I actually turned and looked behind me to see the person at whom his glare was aimed. I couldn't believe it was meant for me.

  But it was. He ended the stare with a different look that seemed to say "I'll deal with you later" and then turned back to the sea of admirers. I was actually shaken by the experience. Such hate in that look! My hands were shaking. I went to the bar to get another drink, and wondered what the hell I was doing at this party anyway. I didn't really fit in with the Bel-Air crowd; I wasn't a famous writer; I had no literary following. I suddenly realized, looking down at the shirt that protruded from my red robes that the cuffs were frayed and gray. Spots I hadn't noticed before leapt out of the crimson of my costume. My shoes had holes in their soles. Who was I trying to fool, rubbing elbows with the new elite?

  I had just decided to leave when I felt a tug at my sleeve. I turned to face the owner of the hand. It was Sted.

  "You are Gordon MacNeil, the writer?" His eyes blazed, but this time with a different look, a look of interest.

  "Yes," I managed to stammer, "but how did you—?"

  "Your reputation precedes you, my friend." He had a slight accent. I couldn't place it. His eyes bored into mine. I was struck almost dumb by his flattery.

  "Y-You've read…"

  "The novel? Tuning In? Yes. Most ingenious, using television as a metaphor."

  I was thunderstruck. "You're the first person to make that connection," I said.

  "Bah!" he exclaimed. "You will learn, perhaps later, that critics are the scum of the earth, my boy. Come, let us talk. Alone."

  I looked around. The knot of admirers was gathering again. "But the others?" I protested. For some reason, I was uneasy.

  "Pish! They are leeches. They do not create. They live only through the genius of others."

  "But why me?" I asked, feeling somehow desperate, and not knowing the reason. "What's so special about me?"

  Sted lifted the cheap crucifix I wore around my neck and frowned, a mirror of the look he'd given me earlier, then his face abruptly changed. He looked at me in a way that simultaneously aroused me and made my flesh crawl. It was the oddest sensation I have ever felt.

  "Because you are full of Life. Come, let us talk of life. Let us Drink."

  For no rational reason, I was abruptly terrified. I wrested my eyes from his and scanned the vacant stares of the crowd around us. The faces were blank; the minds behind them barren of thought. I was somehow trapped—in what, I didn't know. Unwillingly, I looked back at Sted. He smiled, a visage at once both chilling and persuasive.

  "Come," he said. "We will Drink."

  I couldn't help hearing the strange emphasis he'd placed on 'life' and 'drink'. Only later would I understand what significance that had for me.

  Sted took my arm. Reluctantly, but less and less so, I let him guide me through the crowd. It was as if the people were frozen in a stupor. No heads turned to follow us out, no eye met mine, though I tried vainly to snare someone's attention. The people moved in slow motion, as if waltzing in molasses. We glided through them as a breeze glides through wheat: just a passing ripple, then silence. I was later to learn that no one remembered that either of us had been there at all.

  Light, but no sound. Everything fuzzy, then clearing. I was on the floor, some floor somewhere, staring at the ceiling. I felt nothing. I sat up slowly, expecting the throbbing head of a hangover, but felt nothing, no film on the tongue, no ache in the bones. I looked around, and with a shock, noticed that this wasn't my room. It wasn't a room I had seen before, was it?

  A cape on the chair those eyes

  I stood shakily, tentatively testing myself. No stiffness, no pins and needles from being in one position too long. I looked around. The room was small, perhaps a hotel room.

  Desk clerk smiles knowingly, then wilts under the gaze of those eyes forgets we came in

  I went to the bathroom to splash some water on my face, to see if that could clear my head. Something tinkled far away. I looked down at the floor, at my bare feet.

  Shoes are off, my God is he kissing my toes?

  I couldn't figure out why my feet weren't cold on the tile floor. Another tinkle sounded as I stepped further into the bathroom. Shiny fragments.

  Those eyes my question and the anger—the ANGER—hand smashing the—

  Mirror? Is that what those glittery bits were? I looked above the sink. Black circles of adhesive on the drywall, wallpaper torn.

  The anger, the rage—all because I couldn't see—

  Another tinkle. The pieces were all over the floor. I thought I should be careful with my bare feet. Then I looked down, saw the sliver sticking through my toe.

  He's mad now, throws me across the room onto the bed. Throws me! The strength! Those eyes—

  Was there a bed? I turned to look as I pulled the glass from my toe. Easily an inch long and all the way through. There was a bed. Rumpled sheets.

  Hands caress my face I can't believe I'm letting this happen

  An inch long! And all the way through! But there was no— Rumpled sheets and a spot there at the corner— All the way through, but no—

  I couldn't say it. No—

  The spot was the color

  Breath on my neck, those eyes, I want to kiss him?

  The color of the bricks in the schoolhouse in Socorro

  All the way through, and no

  The color of rust, the color of

  Why didn't it hurt?

  All the way through! My God! An inch!

  But there's no

  Am I screaming? I should be screaming. My neck hurts, but those eyes! Do I want to kiss him?

  The color of burnt sienna when it's dry: the spot on the sheet was just about the same color. I held the fragment now, an inch long, silver. I held it up to my face and saw…silver. That's all. The slit in my toe grinned, and the skin flapped. Still there was no—

  I buried my face in the sheet. A thrill, like two fingers wet in a socket. I made animal sounds. There was a taste of salt or copper. The grin in my toe began to throb. The pain, my neck. I reached up, the pain was so intense—

  Am I screaming? I should be screaming

  There were two, as I expected, and the spot on the sheet was the color of—

  I turned again to the sheet. It was damp, not yet dry, and I laughed

  I should be screaming

  And sucked and ripped the sheet with my fangs—yes fangs!—and I realized that it was well and truly my blood and I screamed for a long, long time.

  For a few hours, I did nothing but sit. I was numb. A corner of the sheet hung limply from my slack mouth. It was dark in the room, and somehow that was comforting. I had no idea what time it was. I glanced at my watch—it was broken—and I remembered a snatch of conversation: "Time no longer exists for me, my boy…nor for you."

  I continued to suck on the sheet like some obscene teat, humming. Then there was a change in the air, a pressure. It was as if the air were becoming solid, palpable. A sliver of light lanced across the floor. I followed the sliver to its source, the window.

  The curtains—thick, hotel-room curtains—masked most of it, but a beam of sunlight managed to find i
ts way into the room. I sensed somehow that it could hurt me, like a knife. Dumbly, I watched as the lancet crawled slowly across the floor, creeping toward my foot. Dust motes moved in the light, creating a curtain swirling and dancing in the deeper darkness. And still the sun advanced. The feeling of pressure increased.

  This is what suffocation feels like, I thought.

  My breath came in great, rending gasps. And the light was inches from my foot. I felt heat, as if I had been sitting in front of a fire, exactly as if my feet were on a hearth, warmed by a crackling ember.

  I should move my foot, I thought.

  And the light touched it.

  If I live to be a hundred (ha ha) I will never forget the pain. Imagine your skin peeling back, layer by layer, the tender muscles beneath etched by acid, every nerve pulsing. Imagine an icepick in the eyeball. Imagine a razor, quick, under a fingernail. A paper cut on a nipple. A dentist's drill pushed through the roof of your mouth. A thin, slender wire, thrust in at the base of the coccyx, extending up the first two feet of the spine.

  The pain of the light was worse. The merest touch on my foot brought all these sensations and more. My throat was raw from the scream. Surely I must have awakened everyone in the hotel.

  I cowered in the corner shivering, shrinking from the loathsome light. I could never bear its touch again. Please, God, I prayed, let it be dark!

  As soon as the sun went down, I left the room for my apartment. The maid had knocked several times. I was able to turn her away by claiming illness, but I didn't want to stay there any more. I can't say for