Blue World

by Robert R. McCammon

  “Honest to God, Max!” Deenie’s voice, warmer than Calvin had ever heard it. “This old guy gave me a diamond ring last week! I think he used to work for NBC or ABC or one of those C’s. Anyway, he’s all washed-up now. Do you know what he wears in bed? Socks with garters! Ha! He said he wanted me to marry him. He must’ve been serious because that ring brought six hundred bucks at the pawnshop!”

  “Oh, yeah? Then where’s my share?”

  “Later, baby, later. I’ll meet you at your place after work, okay? We can do the shower thing and rub each other’s backs, huh…?”

  There was a long silence in which Calvin could hear his teeth grinding together.

  “Sure, babe,” Max said finally. “You want to use the black one or the red one tonight?”

  Calvin almost slammed his fist through the door. But instead he turned and ran, a volcano about to erupt in his brain; he ran past the bar, past Mike, out the door to his car. I thought she loved me! he raged as he screeched out of the parking lot. She lied! She played me for a sucker all the way! He floored the accelerator, gripping the wheel with white-knuckled hands.

  By the time he locked himself in his apartment, turned his transistor radio up loud, and flopped down on his sofabed, the volcano had exploded, filling his veins with the seething magma of revenge. Revenge: now, there’s a sweet word, he thought. It was Satan’s battle cry, and now seemed branded into Calvin’s heart. How to do it? he wondered. How? How? Why am I always the little punk?

  He turned his head slightly and gazed at the black makeup case.

  It was open again, the silver claw beckoning him.

  “You’re a jinx!” he screamed at it. But he knew now that it was more. Much, much more. It was weird, evil maybe, but there was power in those little jars: power and perhaps also revenge. No! he told himself. No, I won’t use it! What kind of nutcake am I turning into, to think that makeup could bring me what I want? He stared at the case, his eyes widening. It was unholy, terrible, something from Lucifer’s magic shop. He was aware of the roll of money in his back pocket, and aware also of the bullet holes in his shirt. Unholy or not, he thought, it can give me what I want.

  Calvin reached into the makeup case and chose a jar at random. It was numbered 13, and when he sniffed at the cream he found it smelled of dirty brick, rain-slick streets, whale-oil lamps. He dabbed his finger into the reddish-brown goop and stared at it for a moment, the odors making dim feel giddy and…yes, quite mad.

  He smeared it across his cheeks and worked it into the flesh. His eyes began to gleam with maniacal determination. He scooped out more of it, rubbing it into his face, his hands, his neck. It burned like mad passion.

  The lid fell. The claw clicked into place.

  Calvin smiled and stood up, stepping to a kitchen drawer. He opened it and withdrew a keen-bladed butcher knife. Now, he thought. Now, me Miss Deenie Roundheels, it’s time you got your just desserts, wot? Can’t have ladies like you runnin’ about in the streets, prancin’ and hawkin’ your sweet goods to the highest bidder, can we, luv? No, not if I’ve got a bit to say about it!

  And so he hurried out of the apartment and down to his car, a man on an urgent mission of love’s revenge.

  He waited in the shadows behind the Club Zoom until Deenie came out just after two o’clock. She was alone, and he was glad of that because he had no quarrel with Max; it was the woman—it was Woman—who had betrayed him. She was a beautiful girl with long blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, a sensual pout in a lovely oval face. Tonight she was wearing a green dress, slit to show silky thighs. A sinner’s gown, he thought as he watched her slink across the parking lot.

  Stepping out of the darkness, he held the knife behind him like a gleaming gift he wanted to surprise her with. “Deenie?” he whispered, smiling. “Deenie, luv?”

  She whirled around. “Who’s there?”

  Calvin stood between darkness and the red swirl of neon. His eyes glittered like pools of blood. “It’s your own true love, Deenie,” he said. “Your love come to take you to Paradise.”

  “Calvin?” she whispered, taking a backward step. “What are you doing here? Why…does your face look like that?”

  “I’ve brought something for you, luv,” he said softly. “Step over here and I’ll give it to you. Come on, dearie, don’t be shy.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Calvin? You’re scaring me.”

  “Scaring you? Why, whatever for? I’m your own dear Cal, come to kiss you good night. And I’ve brought a pretty for you. Something nice and bright. Come see.”

  She hesitated, glancing toward the deserted boulevard.

  “Come on,” Calvin said. “It’ll be the sweetest gift any man ever gave you.”

  A confused, uncertain smile rippled across her face. “What’d you bring me, Calvin? Huh? Another necklace? Let’s see it!”

  “I’m holding it behind my back. Come here, luv. Come see.”

  Deenie stepped forward reluctantly, her eyes as bright as a frightened doe’s. When she reached Calvin she held out her hand. “This had better be good, Cal…”

  Calvin grasped her wrist and yanked her forward. When her head rocked back, he ripped the blade across her offered throat. She staggered and started to fall, but before she did, Calvin dragged her behind the Club Zoom so he could take his own sweet time. When he was finished, he looked down at the cooling corpse and wished he had a pencil and paper to leave a note. He knew what it would say: You Have to be Smart To catch Me. Smart like a Fox. Yours from the Depths of Hell, Cal the Ripper.

  He wiped the blade on her body, got in his car, and drove to Hancock Park, where he threw the murder weapon in the LaBrea tarpits. Then a weak, sick feeling overcame him and he sank down into the grass, clutching his knees up close to his body. He was racked with shudders when he realized there was blood all over the front of his shirt. He pulled up handfuls of grass and tried to wipe most of it away. Then he lay back on the ground, his temples throbbing, and tried to think past the pain.

  Oh, God! he thought. What kind of a makeup case have I gotten my hands onto? Who made the box? Who conjured up those jars and tubes and crayons? It was magic, yes: but evil magic, magic gone bad and ugly. Calvin remembered Mr. Marco saying it had belonged to a horror-flick actor named Kronsteen, and that Kronsteen was famous for his monster makeups. Calvin was chilled by a sudden terrible thought: how much was makeup and how much was real? Half and half, maybe? When you put on the makeup, the…essence of the monster gripped into you like some kind of hungry leech? And then, when it had fed, when it had gorged itself on evil and blood, it loosened its hold on you and fell away? Back there in Marco’s office, Calvin thought, I was really part vampire. And then, in the Club Zoom’s parking lot, I was part Jack the Ripper. In those jars, he thought, are not just makeups; in those creams and greasepaints there are real monsters, waiting to be awakened by my desires, my passions, my…evil.

  I’ve got to get rid of it, he decided. I’ve got to throw it out before it destroys me! He rose to his feet and ran across the park to his car.

  The hallway on his floor was as dark as a werewolf’s dreams at midnight. What happened to the damned light bulbs? Calvin thought as he felt his way toward his door. Weren’t they burning when I left?

  And then a floorboard creaked very softly, down at the hallway’s end.

  Calvin turned and stared into the darkness, one hand fumbling with his key. He thought he could make out a vague shape standing over there, but he wasn’t sure. His heart whacked against his rib cage as he slid the key home.

  And he knew it was Crawley a split second before he saw the orange flare from the .45’s muzzle. The bullet hit the doorjamb, pricking his face with wood splinters. He shouted in terror, twisted the doorknob, and threw himself into the room. As he slammed the door shut and locked it, another bullet came screaming through the wood, about an inch from the left side of his skull. He spun away from the door, trying to press himself into the wail.

  “Where’s that five t
housand bucks, Doss!” Crawley shouted from the hallway. “It’s mine! Give it to me or I’ll kill you, you little punk!” A third bullet punched through the center of the door, leaving a hole as big as a fist. Then Crawley began to kick at the door, making it shudder on its aged hinges. Now there were screams and shouts from all over the building, but the door was about to crash in, and soon Crawley would be inside to deliver those two .45 slugs as promised.

  Calvin heard a faint click.

  He whirled around. The silver claw had unlatched itself; the makeup case stood open. He was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.

  The door cracked and whined, protesting the blows from Crawley’s shoulder.

  Calvin watched it bend inward, almost to the breaking point. Another shot was fired, the bullet shattering a window across the room. He turned and looked fearfully at the makeup case again. It can save me, he thought; that’s what I want, and that’s what it can do…

  “I’m gonna blow out your brains when I get in there, Doss!” Crawley roared.

  And then Calvin was across the room; he grabbed a jar numbered 15. The thing practically unscrewed itself, and he could smell the mossy, mountain-forest odor of the stuff. He plunged a forefinger into it, hearing the door begin to split down the middle.

  “I’m gonna kill you, Doss!” Crawley said, and with his next kick the door burst open.

  Calvin whirled to face his attacker, who froze in absolute terror. As Calvin leapt, he howled in animal rage, his claws striping red lines across Crawley’s face. They fell to the floor, Calvin’s teeth gnashing at the unprotected throat of his prey. He bent over Crawley’s remains on all fours, teeth and claws ripping away flesh to the bone. Then he lifted his head and howled with victory. Beneath him Crawley’s body twitched and writhed.

  Calvin fell back, breathing hard. Crawley looked like something that had gone through a meat grinder, and now his twitching arms and legs were beginning to stiffen. The building was full of racket, screaming and shouting from the lower floors. He could hear a police siren, fast approaching, but he wasn’t afraid; he wasn’t afraid at all.

  He stood up, stepped over a spreading pool of blood, and peered down into Orion Kronsteen’s makeup case. In there was power. In there were a hundred disguises, a hundred masks. With this thing, he would never be called a little punk again. It would be so easy to hide from the cops. So easy. If he desired, it would be done. He picked up a jar numbered 19. When he unscrewed it he sniffed at the white, almost clear greasepaint and realized it smelled of…nothing. He smeared it over his hands and face. Hide me, he thought. Hide me. The siren stopped, right outside the building. Hurry! Calvin commanded whatever force ruled the contents of this box. Make me…disappear!

  The lid fell.

  The silver claw clicked into place with a noise like a whisper.

  The two LAPD cops, Ortega and Mullinax, had never seen a man as ripped apart as the corpse that lay on the apartment’s floor. Ortega bent over the body, his face wrinkled with nausea. “This guy’s long gone,” he said. “Better call for the morgue wagon.”

  “What’s this?” Mullinax said, avoiding the shimmering pool of blood that had seeped from the slashed stiff. He unlatched a black box that was sitting on a card table and lifted the lid. “Looks like…theatrical makeup,” he said quietly. “Hey, Luis! This thing fits the description of what was stolen from the Memory Museum last night!”

  “Huh?” Ortega came over to have a look. “Christ, Phil! It is! That stuff belonged to Orion Kronsteen. Remember him?”

  “Nope. Where’d that landlady get off to?”

  “I think she’s still throwing up,” Ortega said. He picked up an open jar and smelled the contents, then dropped it back into the case. “I must’ve seen every horror flick Kronsteen ever starred in.” He looked uneasily at the corpse and shivered. “As a matter of fact, amigo, that poor fella looks like what was left of one of Kronsteen’s victims in Revenge of the Wolf. What could tear a man up like that, Phil?”

  “I don’t know. And don’t try putting the scare in me, either.” He turned his head and stared at something else on the floor, over beyond the unmade sofabed. “My God,” he said softly. “Look at that!” He stepped forward a few paces and then stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Luis, did you hear something?”

  “Huh? No. What is it over there? Clothes?”

  “Yeah.” Mullinax bent down, his brow furrowing. Spread out before him, still bearing a man’s shape, were a shirt, a pair of pants, and shoes. The shoelaces were still tied, the socks in the shoes; the belt and zipper were still fastened as well. Mullinax untucked the shirttail, noting the bloodstains on it and what looked like two cigarette burns, and saw a pair of underwear still in place in the pants. “That’s funny,” he said. “That’s damned funny…”

  Ortega’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “Yeah. Funny. Like that flick Kronsteen did, The Invisible Man Returns. He left his clothes just like that when he…uh…vanished…”

  “I think we’re going to need some help on this one,” Mullinax said, and stood up. His face had turned a pasty gray color, and now he looked past Ortega to the rotund woman in a robe and curlers who stood in the doorway. She stared down at the shredded corpse with dreadful fascination. “Mrs. Johnston?” Mullinax said. “Whose apartment did you say this belonged to?”

  “Cal… Cal… Calvin Doss,” she stammered. “He never pays his rent on time.”

  “You’re sure this isn’t him on the floor?”

  “Yes. He’s…a little man. Stands about under my chin. Oh, I think my stomach’s going to blow up!” She staggered away, her house shoes dragging.

  “Man, what a mess!” Ortega shook his head. “Those empty clothes…that’s straight out of The Invisible Man Returns, I’m telling you!”

  “Yeah. Well, I guess we can send this thing back to where it belongs.” Mullinax tapped his finger on the black makeup case. “You say a horror actor owned it?”

  “Sure did. A long time ago. Now I guess all that stuff is junk, huh.” He smiled faintly. “The stuff dreams are made of, right? I saw most of that guy’s flicks twice, when I was a kid. Like the one about the Invisible Man. And there was another one he did that was really something too, called…let’s see…The Man Who Shrank. Now, that was a classic.”

  “I don’t know so much about horror films,” Mullinax said. He ran a finger over the silver claw. “They give me the creeps. Why don’t you stay up here with our dead friend and I’ll radio for the morgue wagon, okay?” He took a couple of steps forward and then stopped. Something was odd. He leaned against the shattered doorjamb and looked at the sole of his shoe. “Ugh!” he said. “What’d I step on?”

  Doom City

  HE AWAKENED WITH THE memory of thunder in his bones.

  The house was quiet. The alarm clock hadn’t gone off. Late for work! he realized, struck by a bolt of desperate terror. But no, no…wait a minute; he blinked the fog from his eyes and his mind gradually cleared too. He could still taste the onions in last night’s meatloaf. Friday night was meatloaf night. Today was Saturday. No office work today, thank God. Ah, he thought, settle down…settle down…

  Lord, what a nightmare he’d had! It was fading now, all jumbled up and incoherent but leaving its weird essence behind like a snakeskin. There’d been a thunderstorm last night—Brad was sure of that, because he’d awakened to see the garish white flash of it and to hear the gut-wrenching growl of a real boomer pounding at the bedroom wall. But whatever the nightmare had been, he couldn’t recall now; he felt dizzy and disoriented, like he’d just stepped off a carnival ride gone crazy. He did recall that he’d sat up and seen that lightning, so bright it had made his eyes buzz blue in the dark. And he remembered Sarah saying something too, but now he didn’t know what it was…

  Damn, he thought as he stared across the bedroom at the window that looked down on Baylor Street. Damn, that light looks strange. Not like June at all. More like a white winter light. Ghostly. Kind of made his eyes hurt a little
.

  Brad got out of bed and walked across the room. He pushed aside the white curtain and peered out, squinting.

  What appeared to be a gray, faintly luminous fog hung in the trees and over the roofs of the houses on Baylor Street. It looked like the color had been sucked out of everything, and the fog lay motionless for as far as he could see up and down the street. He looked up, trying to find the sun. It was up there somewhere, burning like a dim bulb behind dirty cotton. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Brad Forbes said, “Sarah? Honey? Take a look at this.”

  She didn’t reply, nor did she stir. He glanced at her, saw the wave of her brown hair above the sheet that was pulled up over her like a shroud. “Sarah?” he said again, and took a step toward the bed.

  And suddenly Brad remembered what she’d said last night, when he’d sat up in a sleepy daze to watch the lightning crackle.

  I’m cold, I’m cold.

  He grasped the edge of the sheet and pulled it back.

  A skeleton with tendrils of brittle brown hair attached to its skull lay where his wife had been sleeping last night.

  The skeleton was wearing Sarah’s pale blue nightgown, and what looked like dried-up pieces of tree bark—skin, he realized, yes…her…skin—lay all around, on and between the white bones. The teeth grinned, and from the bed there was the bittersweet odor of a damp graveyard.

  “Oh…” he whispered, and he stood staring down at what was left of his wife as his eyes began to bulge from their sockets and a pressure like his brain was about to explode grew in his head and blood trickled down from his lower lip where his teeth had pierced.

  I’m cold, she’d said, in a voice that had sounded like a whimper of pain. I’m cold.

  And then Brad heard himself moan, and he let go of the sheet and staggered back across the room, tripped over a pair of his tennis shoes, and went down hard on the floor. The sheet settled back over the skeleton like a sigh.

  Thunder rumbled outside, muffled by the fog. Brad stared at one skeletal foot that protruded from the lower end of the sheet, and he saw flakes of dried, dead flesh float down from it to the Sears deep-pile aqua-blue carpet.