The Collected Short Fiction
Later that night a letter is delivered to the room of M. Andre de V. He pours himself a brandy, lights his last cigarette (he forgot to buy some that afternoon), and opens the envelope with a sharp, silvery letter- opener.
Dear Andre (the letter begins):
There's some rather sad news tonight, though maybe not so sad from your point of view. Mlle. LeMieux has finally succumbed to her illness. (Did you even know she was sick?) As she was among our circle of acquaintances, I thought you would like to know.
P.S. How's your new play coming along?
M. Andre de V. reads the letter about a dozen times, until the message really sinks in. Then, still holding the letter in his hand, he returns to his position at the window. Without turning toward the phantasm in the corner, he says to it: "Go away! Please go away. There's not much point anymore."
But the beautiful specter does not disappear as commanded. Having already sensed its maker's unspoken desire, she takes the sharp letter-opener from where he left it on the table and buries it deep in the back of his soft neck.
The Transparent Alias of William Wilson, Sportsman and Scoundrel (1985)
First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994
William Wilson has a namesake who looks exactly like him, walks like him, and is equal in any game of wits. They first meet at Dr. Bransby's school for boys, in England. There Wilson's namesake is constantly thwarting his designs, challenging his superior status among their peers, and on the whole making things difficult for him. Hounded beyond all human endurance, William Wilson one night takes leave of the school, aborting his academic career but at least ridding himself of his obnoxious twin.
Later on, however, Wilson's namesake intrudes upon his life at the most inopportune times: to put a damper on his debauched parties at Eton by reminding him that immoderate and late hours are bad for the soul; to expose his cheating at cards at Oxford; and overall to meddle in his nefarious affairs in most of the major cities of Europe (including, of all places, Moscow). Eventually there is a showdown with swords between the two William Wilsons, and William Wilson, the original, wins. Before he dies, the bloodied namesake utters the awesome pronouncement that William Wilson has killed only himself, not to mention all hopes of ever becoming a sane and decent individual. Of course Wilson realizes that his twin was right all along, and soon after this regrettable duel he sits down to write the tragic story of his life as an apology and perhaps a warning to others.
While he's writing, there's a knock at the door. At first Wilson doesn't bother to answer it (write, Wilson, write), but the knocking is so persistent that he finally does. Standing in the doorway, dripping wet from the storm outside and suddenly illuminated by a flash of lightning, is William Wilson's namesake, back from the dead.
"May I come in?" he asks. Wilson steps aside in amazement and allows the gory twin to enter. He has some trouble scrounging up a chair for his guest (the house was rented cheap but isn't much on furnishings), though at last he turns up a small unvarnished stool, which the other Wilson checks for splinters before sitting down.
"I've found out a few things since the last time we saw each other," Wilson's namesake begins. "You'll recall that I was always admonishing you to change your ways and so on and so forth? Well, I know now that my efforts were actually quite pointless. There was nothing I could do or you could do or anyone else."
"No," protests Wilson. "It was my own will," he insists, "and nothing else which condemned me."
"I'm afraid you are wrong, so wrong," continues Wilson's exasperated namesake, shaking his blood- stained head. "It's not just you, it's everyone. You're just a little fish, my friend. You think you were out to get yourself, you think you were perverse. I don't want to play the alarmist, but I've been some places and seen some things and believe me there's nothing but perversity. The machinery of this place operates entirely on the principle of friction, my friend."
"I've lost the hope of heaven," interjects William Wilson. "Heaven, forget heaven," replies the namesake. "Heaven will be when the big, brainless William Wilson has torn everything up so bad that it'll have to suck the whole mess back in and start over. The point I want to make here is that now that we know what we're up against, maybe we can make our peace and perhaps be of some comfort to each other. This is a really unique opportunity. Maybe—"
But William Wilson will not hear any more of this insanity. He's already suffered anough at the hands of his twin. Taking up his sword, Wilson attacks the specter and savagely hacks him to bits. ("There's my peace with you!" he shouts.) Then he goes around feeding the hunks of flesh to the dogs in the neighborhood, all the while admiring the simple hunger of the devouring beasts.
William Wilson soon afterward starves to death, for when he returns home he finds that the thought of what he's done won't let him stop laughing long enough to take any nourishment, or even a drink of water.
The Unbearable Rebirth of the Phantom of the Wax Museum (1985)
First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994
The Phantom of the wax museum is walking down the street with his new girlfriend. Even though he is wearing a benignly handsome face, which he designed himself, there remains something repellent and sinister in his appearance. "No decent girl would go out with him," mutters an old woman as the couple passes by.
The phantom of the wax museum was once a gentle and sensitive artist who worked very hard, shaping beautiful lifelike representations of figures from history and from modern times. A prosperous craftsman with no head for finance, he was cheated by his business partner and left for dead in a burning studio, where his masterpieces in wax melted one by one into nothing.
He, however, escaped, though in a badly disfigured condition, and from that day on he was mentally deranged, a sadistic demon artist who every so often submerged young women in vats of boiling wax and afterward displayed them for profit to the unsuspecting patrons of his museum. "A genius!" the public exclaimed.
The phantom of the wax museum is about to press the button that will cause his new girlfriend, presently unconscious, to descend into one of those famous bubbling vats. But quite unexpectedly some plainclothes detectives burst into the room and stop him. They rescue the girl and corner her would-be killer at the top of the stairs, just above the eagerly gurgling vat.
Suddenly, in this moment of great stress, the phantom of the wax museum sees a gentle and sensitive face in his mind's eye. He remembers now, he remembers who he was so long ago. In fact, he remembers precious little else. What was he doing and who were these people at the top of those stairs.
"I beg your pardon," he starts to say to the detectives," could you please tell me—" But the youngest of the detectives is a little quick to fire his gun, and the evil phantom of the wax museum goes over the rail, disappearing beneath the creamy surface of the furiously seething vat.
One of the older detectives stares down into the busy pool of wax and in a rare reflective moment says:" If there's any justice in this life, that monster'll boil for eternity. He killed at least five lovely girls!"
But at the moment of his death the fortunate phantom of the wax museum could remember only one girl: his beautiful Marie Antoinette, which he'd finished a few hours ago, or so it seemed, and which he knew he would never see again.
The Unnatural Persecution, by a Vampire, of Mr. Jacob J. (1985)
First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994
A young schoolteacher, who writes a little poetry on the side, is coming home to the boardinghouse where he lives on the top floor. A red-haired girl, one of his pupils, runs up to him just as he steps onto the old boardinghouse stairway.
"Have you heard about the vampire, Mr. Jacob ?" she asks him, squinting in the bright afternoon sunlight. The girl goes on to describe the vampire and its activities as they in turn have been related to her, principally from ey
ewitness accounts. "Of course, I know all that," replies Mr. Jacob. "Well, see you tomorrow," he says crushing a cigarette underfoot. (He doesn't like his students to see him smoking if he can help it.)
That night Mr. Jacob can't sleep. He knows this business with the vampire is just nonsense, but in the middle of the night certain things can get on your nerves that normally you wouldn't think twice about. He drags himself out of bed and opens the only window in his room. How quiet everything is at this hour. Somehow it seems as if he's just noticed this for the first time.
The next day the reports about the vampire are verified by several honest and reliable persons. The body of a man from out of town was found that morning in his hotel room— drained of blood. Mr. Jacob, along with many others, concurs that he felt something strange was up the last few days...something, well, something he couldn't exactly put his finger on.
Tonight Mr. Jacob is taking no chances. He sits by the sole window in his room hour after hour with a large crucifix across his lap. Every little while he forgets himself and dozes off, but each time he manages to startle his mind back to alertness with just one thought about the vampire.
As the days go by, the situation worsens. Many more bodies are found drained of blood. Mr. Jacob hasn't had a decent rest since this terrible season of death began. All night long he sits gazing deep into the darkness beyond that idiotic little window. And he's smoking too much. One day he coughs up some blood into his hand—right in the middle of a grammar lesson!
Due to the inherent limits of the human will, Mr. Jacob falls sound asleep one night by the window. Maybe he is only dreaming when he hears these little taps on the glass, but he wakes up just the same. "No," he screams, leaping from the chair and knocking the crucifix to the floor. He is shivering violently, as if some icy wind has rushed into the room and is tearing its way straight through him. But there is no wind. Outside the window all is quiet and dead.
The next day there is good news. The vampire has moved on, everyone is safe once more. Mr. Jacob opens his window for the first time in weeks on a radiant morning in early spring. Children are singing for joy in the street. He suddenly closes the window and turns back toward his little room.
For Mr. Jacob knows that everyone is suffering from a false sense of security. He stays on his guard. Night upon night he waits by the window, thinking one day the vampire will return....But for some reason she never does.
Late that summer nobody in town is surprised to hear that one evening Mr. Jacob lost his balance and fell onto the street far below. He'd started drinking heavily, poor man. An unfortunate mishap... and just as autumn semester was to begin!
The Worthy Inmate of the Will of the Lady Ligeia (1985)
First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994
The Lady Ligeia is a woman of great beauty—dark hair, high forehead, striking eyes—and also great learning. Her husband, a man of only average looks and accomplishments, shares in her studies of occult wisdom, and to him it sometimes seems that he and his wife are treading on the bounds of forbidden knowledge. From the very beginning there was perhaps something extraordinary about their marriage pact. (For instance, Ligeia kept her last name a secret from her mate, and he never pressed the issue, never questioned this arrangement.) When the Lady Ligeia is dying from an unknown disorder, her husband still doesn't understand what she sees in him. He feels unworthy of her love, which is incomprehensibly intense; he feels it is entirely unmerited.
When living, the Lady Ligeia often spoke of the will to conquer death, the will to survive its terrible, seemingly inevitable victory. Ligeia's widower appears to share these sentiments, and after her death he begins a new life with Lady Rowena Trevanion, of Tremaine, a blue-eyed blond woman from a distinguished English family. However, not long into his second marriage he shuts himself away in a secluded room of bizarre decor: nightmarish colors, garish appointments, and weird, restless tapestries. There he recklessly jeopardizes his mental balance with drugs and strange dreams. His physical well-being doesn't sustain any serious damage (he's as fit as he ever was), but his second wife's health, like her predecessors suddenly and inexplicably seems to be declining.
He sees Lady Rowena suffer a series of relapses and recoveries, until to his eyes she has at last wasted away altogether, and dies in that secluded and fantastically renovated chamber. Her lifeless form lies before him, but all he can think about is his first wife, his lost love, Ligeia.
By design, that strange room he built for himself is perfect for dreaming in, and now he is dreaming quite strenuously, dreaming with every ounce of his will about his first wife, the Lady Ligeia. He also takes an immoderate amount of opium as an aid to his dreaming. At the same time the corpse of his second wife. Lady Rowena, seems to be exhibiting incredible signs of revived life—color in the face, faint pulsing of the heart—which then disappear, only to reappear after a brief interval. This occurs off and on throughout the night and culminates in the supernatural resurrection not of Lady Rowena, but of the Lady Ligeia, whom the widower of both ladies has dreamed back to life, supplying the body of his second wife to accommodate the first.
But the resurrection is an illusory one. Lady Rowena is, in fact, not dead; nor is the Lady Ligeia alive. For all his efforts, their husband hadn't dreamed either of them anywhere but has succeeded only in dreaming himself out of one world and into another. Through this exercise of will he has finally merited the love of the dark woman whose raven hair is now spreading from the shadows of her shroud. He has willed himself into her domain, from which no one ever escapes and which is the very source of the will itself.
And now they are both locked forever in the formless phantasmagoria from which emanates innumerable echoes of each gory and passionate throb of the Heart Divine. Best of all, Ligeia has her husband back.
"Oh Rowena, Rowena," he screams. But nobody—never mind the blond, blue-eyed widow—can hear him now.
The Lost Art Of Twilight (1986)
First published in Dark Horizons #30, 1986
Also published in: Songs Of A Dead Dreamer, The Nightmare Factory.
I have painted it, tried to at least. Oiled it, watercolored it, smeared it upon a mirror which I positioned to rekindle the glow of the real thing. And always in the abstract. Never actual sinking suns in spring, autumn, winter skies; never a sepia light descending over the trite horizon of a lake, not even the particular lake I like to view from the great terrace of my great house. But these Twilights of mine were not merely all abstraction, which is simply a way to keep out the riff-raff of the real world. Other painterly abstractionists may claim that nothing is represented in their canvases, and probably nothing is: a streak of iodine red is just a streak of iodine red, a patch of flat black equals a patch of flat black. But pure color, pure light, pure lines and their rhythms, pure form in general all mean much more than that. The others have only seen their dramas of shape and shade; I—and it is impossible to insist on this too strenuously—I have been there. And my twilight abstractions did in fact represent some reality, somewhere, sometime: a zone formed by palaces of soft and sullen color hovering beside seas of scintillating pattern and beneath rhythmic skies; a zone in which the visitor himself is transformed into a formal essence, a luminous presence, free of substance—a citizen of the abstract. And a zone (I cannot sufficiently amplify my despair on this point, so I will not try) that I will never know again.
Only a few weeks ago I was sitting out on the terrace of my massive old mansion, watching the early autumn sun droop into the above-mentioned lake, talking to Aunt T. Her heels clomped with a pleasing hollowness on the flagstones of the terrace. Silver-haired, she was attired in a gray suit, a big bow flopping up to her lower chins. In her left hand was a long envelope, neatly caesarianed, and in her right hand the letter it had contained, folded in sections like a triptych.
"They want to see you," she said, gesturing with the letter. "They want to come here."
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bsp; "I don't believe it," I said and skeptically turned in my chair to watch the sunlight stretching in long cathedral-like aisles across the upper and lower levels of the lawn.
"If you would only read the letter," she insisted.
"It's in French, no? Can't read."
"Now that's not true, to judge by those books you're always stacking in the library."
"Those happen to be art books. I just look at the pictures."
"You like pictures, André?" she asked in her best matronly ironic tone. "I have a picture for you. Here it is: they are going to be allowed to come here and stay with us as long as they like. There's a family of them, two children and the letter also mentions an unmarried sister. They're traveling all the way from Aix-en-Provence to visit America, and while on their trip they want to see their only living blood relation here. Do you understand this picture? They know who you are and, more to the point, where you are."
"I'm surprised they would want to, since they're the ones—"
"No, they're not. They're from your father's side of the family. The Duvals," she explained. "They do know all about you but say [Aunt T. here consulted the letter for a moment] that they are sans préjugé."
"The generosity of such creatures freezes my blood. Phenomenal scum. Twenty years ago these people do what they did to my mother, and now they have the gall, the gall, to say they aren't prejudiced against me."
Aunt T. gave me a warning hrumph to silence myself, for just then the one I called Rops walked out onto the terrace bearing a tray with a slender glass set upon it. I dubbed him Rops because he, as much as his artistic namesake, never failed to give me the charnel house creeps.
He cadavered over to Aunt T. and served her her afternoon cocktail.
"Thank you," she said, taking the glass of cloudy stuff.