The Collected Short Fiction

  'The reverend has been gone since the last disappearances,' said an old woman whose face I could barely see in the candlelight that illuminated the enormous, echoing lobby of a defunct hotel where some of us had gathered after midnight. But someone took issue with the old woman, or 'idiot-hag,' as this person called her. The preacher, this other person contended in exactly the following words, was old town. This was my first exposure to the phrase 'old town,' but before I could take in its full meaning or implications it began to undergo a metamorphosis among those gathered after midnight in the lobby of that defunct hotel. While the person who called the old woman an idiot-hag continued to speak of the 'old town,' where he said Reverend Cork resided or was originally from, the old woman and a few of those who sided with her spoke only about the other town. 'No one is from the other town,' the woman said to the person who was calling her an idiot-hag. 'There are only those who disappear into the other town, among them the demonic preacher Reverend Cork, who may have been a ludicrous impostor but was never what anyone would call demonic until he disappeared into that trap door in the room where this gentleman,' she said, referring to me, 'heard him preaching only last night.'

  'You idiot-hag,' said the other person, 'the old town existed on the very spot where this northern border town now exists... until the day when it disappeared, along with everyone who lived in it, including the demonic preacher Reverend Cork.'

  Then someone else, who was lying deep in the cushions of an old divan in the lobby, added the following words: 'It was a demon town and was inhabited by demonic entities of all sorts who made the whole thing invisible. Now they throw out these thresholds as a way to lure another group of us who only want to live in this town near the northern border and not in some intolerable demon town.'

  Nonetheless, the old woman and the few others who sided with her persisted in speaking not about an old town or an invisible demon town, but about the other town, which, they all agreed, never had any concrete existence to speak of, but was simply a metaphysical backdrop to the northern border town that we all knew and that was a place where many of us fervently desired to make an end of our lives. Whatever the facts in this matter, one point was hammered into my brain over and over again: there was simply no peace to be had no matter where you hid yourself away. Even in a northern border town of such intensely chaotic oddity and corruption there was still some greater chaos, some deeper insanity, than one had counted on, or could ever be taken into account—wherever there was anything, there would be chaos and insanity to such a degree that one could never come to terms with it, and it was only a matter of time before your world, whatever you thought it to be, was undermined, if not completely overrun, by another world.

  Throughout the late hours of that night the debates and theories and fine qualifications continued regarding the spectral towns and the tangible thresholds that served to reduce the number of permanent residents of the northern border town, either by causing them to disappear through some out-of-the-way door or window or down a spiraling stairway or phantom street, or by forcing them to abandon the town because, for whatever reason, it had become, or seemed to become, something quite different from the place they had known it to be, or believed it to be, for so long. Whether or not they arrived at a resolution of their conflicting views I will never know, since I left the defunct hotel while the discussion was still going strong. But I did not go back to my small apartment in one of the oldest parts of town. Instead I wandered out to the hilltop graveyard outside of town and stood among the graves until the following morning, which was as cold and overcast as the one before it. I knew then that I would not die in the northern border town, either by means of a violent misadventure or a wasting disease, or even by my own hand, and therefore I would not be buried in the hilltop graveyard where I stood that morning looking down on the place where I had lived for so long. I had already wandered the streets of the northern border town for the last time and found, for whatever reason, that they had become something different from what they had been, or had once seemed to be. This was the only thing that was now certain in my mind. For a moment I considered returning to the town and seeking out one of the newly appeared thresholds in order to enter it before all of them mysteriously disappeared again, so that I might disappear along with them into the other town, or the old town, where perhaps I might find once more what I seemed to have lost in the northern border town. Possibly there might have been something there—on the other side of the town—that was like the dead-end street where, it was said, 'When you hear the singing, you will know it is time.' And while I might never be able to die in the town near the northern border, neither would I ever have to leave it. To have such thoughts was, of course, only more chaos and insanity. But I had not slept for two nights. I was tired and felt the ache of every broken dream I had ever carried within me. Perhaps I would one day seek out another town in another land where I could make an end of it, or at least where I could wait in a fatalistic delirium for the end to come. Now it was time to just walk away in silence.

  Years later I learned there was a movement to 'clean up' the northern border town of what was elsewhere perceived to be its 'contaminated' elements. On arriving in the town, however, the investigators assigned to this task discovered a place that was all but deserted, the only remaining residents being a few hysterics or impostors who muttered endlessly about 'other towns' or 'demon towns,' and even of an 'old town.' Among these individuals was a large and gaudily attired old woman who styled herself as the owner of a lodging house and several other properties. These venues, she said, along with many others throughout the town, had been rendered uninhabitable and useless for any practical purpose. This statement seemed to capsulize the findings of the investigators, who ultimately composed a report that was dismissive of any threat that might be posed by the town near the northern border, which, whatever else it may have been, or seemed to be, was always a genius of the most insidious illusions.

  Crampton (1998)

  This is the original script for Crampton, an X-Files episode written by Thomas Ligotti and Brandon Trenz. It was later re-worked and republished as Crampton, produced by Durtro Press in 2002

  This version taken from: Photocopies from eBay.

  CRAMPTON

  an episode of "The X Files"

  by

  Thomas Ligotti and Brandon Trenz

  Copyright 1998

  FADE IN:

  SUPER: J. EDGAR HOOVER BLDG., WASHINGTON, DC

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS

  A MAN exits an elevator and walks through the halls of FBI headquarters. We never see his face, only glimpses of slicked-back blond hair and his clothes: a black suit, stiff white cuffs, white gloves, shiny black shoes—classic stage magician attire.

  Though he walks without pretense of stealth, his passage seems completely undetected. The FBI agents that mill about the halls and offices do not notice him as he goes by, or their attention is drawn elsewhere just as he comes into view. Those in his path appear to step out of his way without even knowing it.

  CUT TO:

  INT. ELEVATOR

  AGENT FOX MULDER and AGENT DANA SCULLY enter the elevator on another floor. They are in the middle of a conversation. Judging by the look on Scully's face, she's wishing it was over already.

  MULDER

  So, seriously, you never saw Star Wars?

  SCULLY

  Nope.

  MULDER

  Never?

  SCULLY

  What did I just say?

  MULDER

  How could you not see Star Wars?

  SCULLY

  I was a little more into Grease at the time.

  MULDER

  Jeez, Scully, it's only like the most popular movie ever.

  SCULLY

  No, that's Titanic—which you never saw.

  MULDER

  Yeah, well, I know how it ends.

  CUT TO:

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS

  The blond man enters a
door marked "Criminal Division." At one of the half-dozen or so cubicles inside sits AGENT LARRY JOHNSON, studying a sheaf of black-and-white photographs. The man strides to Agent Johnson's desk and reaches into his jacket.

  BLOND MAN

  (in a dead voice)

  Larry Johnson?

  AGENT JOHNSON

  (looking up)

  Yes?

  Johnson's face goes ashen.

  AGENT JOHNSON

  How did you get in here?

  JOHNSON'S POV: We get a very brief glimpse of the invading figure's face—handsome but bland, forgettable—before it is blocked by the BARREL OF A .44. The .44 EXPLODES—bang! bang!

  The ROAR of gunfire breaks the spell. FBI agents turn toward the gunshots to see Agent Johnson slammed backwards, thrown out of his chair, knocking down the wall of his cubicle.

  The AGENT nearest Agent Johnson leaps at the assassin, tackling him around the waist. The two men hit the ground with an alarming CLATTER.

  The agent rises on his elbows.

  AGENT

  What the hell?

  What previously was a man dressed in stage magician's clothes is now a BROKEN-UP PLASTER MANNIKIN. The head has become detached from the body and is still SPINNING a few feet away.

  CUT TO:

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS, MINUTES LATER

  Agents Mulder and Scully step off the elevator into chaos: FBI agents and EMS personnel are swarming around the fallen Larry Johnson.

  MULDER

  (to the nearest agents)

  What's going on?

  AGENT

  You don't want to know.

  ANOTHER AGENT

  It was Johnson.

  MULDER

  Larry Johnson?

  EMS personnel wheel a gurney past them—on it, the body of Larry Johnson.

  SCULLY (O.S.)

  Did you know him, Mulder?

  Mulder looks at the mannikin parts strewn across the floor, and for a moment he hesitates, as if trying to remember something.

  SCULLY (O.S.)

  Mulder?

  CLOSE UP on the mannikin's face.

  CREDITS

  INT. AUTOPSY ROOM, NEXT DAY

  Mulder enters the swinging doors, holding a folded newspaper. Scully stands next to an operating table in scrubs. On the table is the body of Larry Johnson.

  MULDER

  Well, the Bureau's collective underwear is really up in a bunch on this one. The word from Skinner is that the Director wants hourly reports until this thing is cleaned up. You should see it, it's like a Fed convention around here. They've already come up with the "official" story.

  He unfolds the newspaper, showing Scully the front page.

  SCULLY

  (reading)

  "Assassin guns down FBI agent. Terrorism not ruled out." What terrorism?

  MULDER

  My sentiments exactly.

  SCULLY

  Actually, at this point it's probably as good an explanation as anything else.

  MULDER

  I take that to mean the autopsy has proved less than illuminating.

  SCULLY

  Agent Lawrence Johnson died at two-nineteen p.m. yesterday of a massive heart attack.

  MULDER

  Heart attack? Well, that explains it.

  SCULLY

  Explains what, exactly?

  MULDER

  How this could kill him.

  Mulder holds up an evidence bag containing what appears to be the .44 used to shoot Agent Larry Johnson. He pulls the gun out, points it in the air, and pulls the trigger. Out of the barrel POPS a little flag with the word "Bang!" on it.

  SCULLY

  But weren't there gunshots?

  MULDER

  The agents on the scene seem to be having trouble remembering little details like that. What's more, the security cameras on that floor apparently began malfunctioning about the time the, uh, terrorist entered the building. Started picking up television signals.

  SCULLY

  All of them?

  Mulder shrugs.

  MULDER

  (pointing to Johnson)'s body)

  So, what do we tell Skinner about this?

  SCULLY

  I'm not sure yet, but I think Larry Johnson saw the gun and believed he had been shot, and the shock killed him. He was, for lack of a better expression, tricked to death. It's not exactly common, but it has happened before.

  She lifts the sheet off Johnson to show Mulder the body.

  SCULLY

  And then there's this...

  Scully takes a penlight and, opening Johnson's eyelids with her fingers, shines it into Johnson's dead eyes. THE PUPILS SHRINK as the light hits them. Scully points the light away. The PUPILS EXPAND.

  JOHNSON'S POV: Looking up from the table, we see Scully shine the light down again, then move it away.

  MULDER

  Ah. That.

  SCULLY

  Mulder, when we got to the scene of the shooting, or whatever it was, you clearly recognized Larry Johnson. Do you have some idea what this is all about?

  MULDER

  Meet me back in my office.

  JOHNSON'S POV: Still looking up, we see Mulder walk out of view. Scully looks down at Johnson's body, then pulls the sheet back over him, covering the CAMERA.

  INT. MULDER'S OFFICE

  Mulder and Scully are watching a series of videotapes on a small television.

  MULDER

  About seven years ago, Johnson and his partner, Ricky Smith, were following a fraud case—late-night infomercials for a psychic hotline.

  On the TELEVISION SCREEN, gaudy red letters announce "The Mystery Line," along with an 800 number. The words dissolve into the image of a blandly handsome BLOND MAN, sitting at a desk next to a heavy black telephone.

  BLOND MAN

  (on the video)

  What lottery numbers will make you rich? How can you make that someone special notice you? What is your purpose in life? When will you die? The Mystery Line has the answers to all your questions.

  The man holds up the receiver and looks at the camera, appearing to almost stare through the screen.

  BLOND MAN

  (on the video)

  Call now, if you really want to know.

  Mulder hits eject and fishes for another tape, popping it into the VCR.

  MULDER

  I was with Violent Crimes at the time. Johnson and Smith called us in when they visited the homes of some of the Mystery Line's clients.

  On the TELEVISION SCREEN, a hand-held camera documents the interior of an apartment. Several FBI agents stand over the body of a middle-aged woman, her dead eyes open and staring. Near her open hand is a telephone receiver. In the background we can hear television STATIC.

  MULDER

  Eleven people, mostly in the Midwest, were found like this. No apparent cause of death. Television on. Phone off the hook—still connected to the Mystery Line. And check this out.

  Mulder points to the television screen. An agent takes a penlight and inspects the dead woman's eyes. The PUPILS CONTRACT as the light hits them.

  MULDER

  Look familiar?

  SCULLY

  Larry Johnson. So, what was the deal with the Mystery Line?

  MULDER

  Johnson and Smith never made any headway. The phone number was traced back to an answering machine in an abandoned warehouse in Arizona. None of the victims were actually charged for the hotline's services, so there was no way to follow the money.

  Mulder points to the television screen again.

  MULDER

  There. That's Ricky Smith.

  On the SCREEN, a rotundish man with a neatly trimmed beard is giving orders. At one point he turns angrily toward the camera.

  RICKY SMITH (ON THE VIDEOTAPE)

  Get that thing out of my face!

  MULDER

  He had a reputation as an arrogant s.o.b., but he was actually a hell of an agent. Tenacious.

  He stops the tape.


  SCULLY

  So where is Ricky Smith now?

  MULDER

  Nobody knows. We were taken off the case when it was clear it was going nowhere. I heard Smith and Johnson had some kind of blow-up. Smith resigned not long after, and nobody has heard from him since.

  Mulder takes a slip of paper out of an evidence bag and hands it to Scully.

  MULDER

  The man who shot Larry Johnson? This was found in his pocket.

  It is a receipt slip, the old kind that requires a sheet of carbon paper underneath to make a merchant's copy. On it is stenciled the name of the merchant, which Scully reads out loud.

  SCULLY

  Illusions of Empire Magic Shop. Mulder, there isn't anything else on this.

  MULDER

  Check out the back.

  Scully turns the receipt over. On the back in a neat but somehow antiquated hand is a map showing a few roads, but there are no names or compass directions. At one crossroads is a box labeled "Yellow House."

  SCULLY

  This doesn't tell us a whole lot, Mulder.

  MULDER

  Well, it's all we've got to work with right now. Skinner wants this wrapped up a-sap—an FBI agent getting gunned down at his desk doesn't look too good on recruiting day.

  SUPER: ILLUSIONS OF EMPIRE, EMPIRE, MICHIGAN

  INT. MAGIC SHOP

  Illusions of Empire is a dank little shop that looks and smells like an old basement. Shelves bow under the weight of boxes with labels like "Glass Box Penetration," "Smashed Watch Gimmick," "Nest o' Balls," and "Bloody Needle Gag."

  One wall of the shop is devoted entirely to ventriloquist dummies. Mulder takes one down—the label reads "My name is Laffo!"—and clumsily manipulates the mouth.

  MULDER

  (mumbling through clenched teeth)

  Hi there, kids! Hi there, kids!

  DUMMY'S POV: CLOSE UP on Mulder's face, his comic smile. The dummy's head turns, showing Scully looking at Mulder the way a mother looks at a misbehaving child. Mulder puts "Laffo" back on his shelf.

  Illusion of Empire's SHOPKEEP is standing behind the counter. He looks like some small-time hustler out of an old gangster movie: greasy hair, thin mustache, smoking an unfiltered cigarette down to a nub with another one behind his ear.