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 pass 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 eyeglasses. 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 latitudes 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 eyeglasses.
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 Eternal Mirage (1994)
First published in its original form in Crypt Of Cthulhu #68, 1989 as 'Dreamworld Horror', a section of Studies In Horror.
Also published in this revised form in: Noctuary
Illusions struggle with illusions.
And in the expansive silence of that landscape nothing is settled or certain, not excepting the image of infinity presented by the stars and blackness that seem to spread immensely above. For below, one may vow, extends another blackness, an endless ebony plateau whose surface is like polished stone. There the sky would appear to have thrown down stars, setting them within the shining darkness of the lower world so that it might contemplate from afar these glittering relics, scintillant cast-offs from its ancient treasure, the brilliant debris of its dreams.
Thus, both above and below one may see the flickering of these luminous motes, quivering bodies held captive in the unbroken web of blackness. And the abysmal web itself seems to tremble; for nothing there is at peace or secure in its nature. Even the emptiness that separates the starlight from its reflection upon the great glassy plain is an imitation void. For, having made the level land its mirror, the sky has gazed too long and too deeply, reaching into itself and embracing its own visions, saturating the distance between the thing and its simulacrum. All space is virtual; the infinite is illusory. There, in that landscape, a dimension has died, annihilating depth and leaving behind only a lustrous image which seems to float far and wide upon the infinite surface of a black ocean.
And it is said that this ocean is itself merely a starry phantasm glimpsed in certain eyes... eyes that may be seen as one wanders the streets of strange cities... eyes that are like two stars laid deep in a black mirror.
The Interminable Equation (1994)
First published in its original form in Crypt Of Cthulhu #68, 1989 as 'Nihilistic Horror', a section of Studies In Horror.
Also published in this revised form in: Noctuary
After tabulating our number of days on this earth, we would still have to multiply this sum several times in order to take into account our dreams — those days inside our nights. Several more lifetimes must therefore be added, including those in which the dead continue to live and those in which the living are dead; those in which such trivial occurrences as an innocent laugh acquire a profound meaning and those in which the most awesome events have none at all; those which are made very strange by supernatural powers and those in which magic itself seems commonplace; those in which we play ourselves and those in which we seem to be someone else; those in which everything appears frightening and harmful and those in which indifference is the single note that sounds throughout.
These contradictions make our dreams seem negligible, and this is what enables them to be ignored in the tabulation of our days.
But there are still those dreams which are waiting for others to come along whose terms and conditions will cancel them out. These are the leftover dreams, our dark days, which have yet to fall victim to mathematics, and they are the only ones that count for anything. And it is the same with our waking days. Only a few of those escape nullification by contradiction, that process of cancellation which is going on all the time.
In any case, neither dreams nor days ever survive long before their counterparts annihilate them. It is quite possible that, in our last moments, there will be nothing left which we might look back on as a lifetime.
But will this nothingness itself endure, or will it too be cancelled out by some inviolable and unsuspected form of being, terminating at last in a kind of double oblivion?
The Master's Eyes Shining with Secrets (1994)
First published in its original form in Crypt Of Cthulhu #68, 1989 as 'Transcendent Horror', a section of Studies In Horror.
Also published in this revised form in: The Nightmare Factory, Noctuary
Those bells ringing on the mist-covered mountain signify that the Master of the Temple is dead. The fact of the matter is that the monks there finally killed him. It seems that a few years ago the Master of the Temple began to exhibit some odd and very unpleasant forms of behavior. He apparently lost all sense of earthly decorum, even losing control over his own body. At one point an extra head sprouted from the side of the Master's neck, and this ugly little thing started to issue all sorts of commands and instructions to the monks which only their lofty sense of decency and order prevented them from carrying out. Eventually the Master of the Temple was confined to a small room in an isolated part of the monastery. There, this once wise and beloved teacher was looked after like an animal. For several years the monks put up with the noises he made, the diverse shapes he took. Finally, they killed him.
It is whispered among students of enlightenment that one may achieve a state of being in which enlightenment itself loses all meaning, with the consequence that one thereby becomes subject to all manner of strange destinies.
And the monks? After the assassination they scattered in all directions. Some hid out in other monasteries, while others went back to live among the everyday inhabitants of this earth. But it was not as if they could escape their past by fleeing it, no more than they could rid themselves of their old maste
r by killing him.
For even after the death of his material self, the Master of the Temple sought out those who were once under his guidance; and upon these unhappy disciples he now bestowed, somewhat insistently, his terrible illumination.
The Mocking Mystery (1994)
First published in Noctuary, 1994.
Where ultimate knowledge is denied, mystery must rule. Every enterprise is instigated by it; every word is founded upon it. Above all does it live in the ruins of certain cities, where everything has been denied and even the shadows suffocate in the dense ether of mystery.
A type of worship may even be devoted to the ruined state, consecrating earthly objects that in their decrepitude have attained a divine status. Crumbling pillars shake off their burden, forsake their function, and stand serenely above the rubble of old pediments. And what domes and spires may still be held aloft release their grasp upon the gray heights of a barren horizon. Below, carven images of gods and beasts all abandon themselves to shattered confusion, their once perfect likenesses now heaped and corroded, their significance lost. Skeletons eased of all flesh openly consort with stones and dust, liberated from the duties of life.
Indeed, the ideal of the necropolis appears to be annihilation. Everywhere things are effacing or disguising their existence, seeking a mask of shadows or a veil of pale light wavering across their disfigured surfaces. But their struggle for obscurity nonetheless remains only a matter of form—an invasion of vitality still threatens the ruins of certain cities.
And though it may arrive in different guises, the outcome will be the same: a new genesis.
Preceding the moment of revivification there may be a sudden darkness which embraces the dead city, and within the darkness great flashes of light create the appearance that things are in motion. There may only be a frail mist which drifts among the ruins and slithers into their every fracture. Or there may be nothing at all, or nothing that may be witnessed. Yet all the same it will happen that something begins to stir where, for so long, everything had been at rest. Then it will seem that skeletons have broken the silence with moans of life and the stones themselves have emerged from sleep. And other things join in the awakening, as old dreams sink into the ocean of unmemory and the ruins are recreated in a new semblance.
The source of this resurrection-to-come may remain unknown, its purposes secreted in the remotest parts of the creation. Yet no force ever withstands the way of this mysterious maker of new worlds, just as no world is ever allowed to endure in its greatness. For nothing is allowed a face but that it may be only a mask without a constant soul; nothing is allowed a mask but that it may wither and finally be torn from its face. And upon these truths will all things thrive in the great chains of that strange and endless dream, and flourish—let it be said—in the mysterious atmosphere of ruination.
For wherever mystery serves as a foundation, only ruins may be erected. There, every structure is secretly ravaged as it rises, for beneath lie the wavering substrata and a strange life that will not share itself with any other. Yet more strangely, neither will it long tolerate the dignity of a picturesque decay, and thus is forever creeping into the desolate ruins of certain cities to violate their sleep. Then will the wreckage be resurrected in new shapes, the scenery pulled up on another stage, lively faces painted upon dead players, their twisted limbs restrung with wires.
But mystery itself remains guarded, its life sealed far away from its creation. And in a world that merely seems to possess a life of its own, figures parade in a state of terror which is immortal, unchanging, and which endures, through all the phases of a fateful ordeal, as their only inviolable birthright.
The Nameless Horror (1994)
First published in its original form in Crypt Of Cthulhu #68, 1989 as 'Nameless Horror', a section of Studies In Horror.
Also published in this revised form in: Noctuary
The place was an old studio. To him it seemed abandoned, yet who knows? Certainly nothing there was in its place—not the broken odds and ends lying about, not the scattered papers, not even the dust. The panes of the skylight were caked with it. Yet who can be sure? Perhaps there was some imperceptible interval between occupation and abandonment, some fine phase of things which he was simply unable to detect at the moment. He stooped and picked up a few of the wrinkled papers, which appeared to be drawings. Now a little rain began drooling down the panes of the skylight.
The drawings. He shuffled a stack of them page after page before his eyes. So intricate, everything in them was made of tiny, tiny hairs or little veins, insect veins. There were shapes: he could not tell what they were supposed to be, but something about the shape of the shapes, their twistings and the way they flared around, was so horrible. A little rain seeped in through some fine cracks in the windowpanes above; it dripped down and made strange marks on the dusty floor of the old studio.
Someone was coming up the stairs outside the door of the studio. So he hid behind that door, and, when that someone came in, he, without looking back, went out.
Tip-toeing down the stairs, running down the street in the rain.
He was walking now, and the rain was sluicing vigorously in the gutters. And something else that he saw was in there too. It looked like the tail of an animal, but a very intricate tail. It was being dragged slowly along by the run-off in the gutter, and it made weird wriggling movements. When it was farther away, the intricacies of the object—those involved patterns in which he thought he saw a face smiling so peacefully—were no longer discernible, and he felt relieved.
But the rain was coming down even harder now, so he retreated into a shelter along the street. It was just a little room with a wooden bench, open on one side and rain running off its roof, long watery ropes of rain that were swinging a little in the wind. Very damp in there, and the frayed edges of shadows waving on the three walls. Damp smell, with something else too, some unsavory enigma about the place, something in its very outlines, its contours. What was it that happened in here, and could that be a little blood over there?
The bench where he had sat down was now gleaming with dampness under moonlight. At the other end, almost entirely absorbed into the dark little corner, was a bent figure, almost folded in half. It groaned and moved a little. Finally it straightened up, and its intricately tangled hair came tumbling down into the moonlight. Along the bench it slid, dragging itself and its rags slowly to his side. He, on the other hand, could not move an inch, not a hair.
Then, from somewhere within all that tangled intricacy, a pair of eyes opened, and a pair of lips. And they said to him: "Let me tell you what my name is."
But when the figure leaned over, smiling so placidly, those shapeless lips had to whisper their words into the cold damp ear of a corpse.
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 sparseness, the jaundiced and tallowy flesh of their foreheads, jaws, and cheekbones. Elaborate eye make-up helped them enormously. The men resorted to dark glasses 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 glasses with delicate crystal stems and galaxies of bubbles in their bowls, but of course even such dainty glassware 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 lef
t a wet patch which dried up soon afterwards.
I decided to wear dark glasses 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 glasses," 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."