(click!)
* * *
July 20th
Dear Analia:
Okay, this is it. By the time you get this letter, Lovecraft, I Love You! will be a part of Broadway history.
Well, at least, your sister will be over her Opening Night Jitters. Everybody is nervous and some of the people are actually scared, or superstitious at least.
I mean, you probably didn’t hear about it out there in Cincinnati, but this lady who does a radio show about all the Broadway shows fell in front of a subway a couple of nights back—right after the interview she did with me (I know, I forgot to tell you about it…) was on the air. There was a witness, a homeless guy, who said she didn’t fall at all, that she was pulled out onto the tracks by something in the shadows, something that looked kind of like a big octopus.
Pretty silly, I know, but some of the people in the show are a little freaked by the story. Especially after one of the crew got caught in the gears of the hydraulic lift at tech rehearsal last night. I’ll have to tell you all the gooshy parts when I see you next week. (You are still flying in with John, aren’t you?)
So give all the kids a big hug and kiss (each) from their Favorite Aunt. I can’t wait to see you guys!
Love,
Estela
* * *
(From the Sunday Times ENTERTAINMENT Section)
Probably the most anticipated opening of the young season has to have been the Arkham Foundation’s production of Lovecraft, I Love You! I know this critic had been hearing conflicting reports about the show on the jungle telegraph, and when you combine that with a few mysterious, albeit accidental, deaths of people connected with the show, well, I’d say you have something intriguing in the very least.
Lovecraft, I Love You! stars promising new talents in the persons of Garrett Fairfax and Estela Duarte, who portray the lead characters of Providence writer, Howard Lovecraft and his enigmatic ladyfriend, Sonia Greene. But before going on, I’d better make a small confession: despite the above actors’ earnest efforts, I initially found them in a futile struggle to be believable. The show’s opening songs and choreographies seemed so…lame (the only word that springs to mind)…that I was about to dismiss the production as a dismal and insulting assault on good taste. Indeed, I sensed a similar displeasure in the audience.
However, something odd and wonderful happened as the show picked up steam. The leaden cadence of the songs began to create a disposition not unlike that created by a selection of Gregorian Chants. The overblown lighting and special effects gradually passed from merely tolerable to palatable and finally engrossing. I experienced a transformation not only of mood, but of spirit. To feel my predisposed negative feelings be consummately dispelled was almost a religious, if not transcendental experience. Another oddly wonderful aspect of Lovecraft, I Love You! is its subtle, yet inexorable, revelation of an arcane mythology, which is far too complex to explore in this limited space. Be it enough for this critic to simply say the portrayal of the mythic system is fascinating, engrossing, and almost hypnotic. For an entirely original and exciting night of theatre, don’t miss this one.
* * *
(blurbs from the billboards at Times Square…)
“Enthralling!” The New York Post
“Mesmerizing!” The New Yorker
“A religious experience.” The New York Times
“Subversive and captivating!” The Village Voice
“Watch out for this one!” The East Village Other
* * *
(from a Newsday music review…)
For the third week in a row the chart-topper CD in the Showtunes category is Lovecraft, I Love you! Industry neophyte Necro Records must have been using a crystal ball on this one. By releasing an original cast CD of the hit rock-opera only two days after the Broadway opening, they’ve enjoyed the marketing coup of the year. This is the hottest disc in New York these days. No matter where you go, you cannot help but hear people humming the odd tunes, singing those songs with their weird and practically unpronounceable lyrics. Subways, buses, elevators, the streets, and even store clerks as they work. No doubt about it: the city’s pulse can be found in the beat of this music.
* * *
The New York Times (AP)—Dr. F. X. Paulson, of Columbia University confirmed the reports of unusual seismic activity beneath the deep underwater canyons of the Hudson River and its confluence with the Atlantic Ocean. “It’s very odd,” said Professor Paulson. “It is as if there was something down there, trying to push its way to the surface. The pressure point is extremely precise and focused. I’ve never seen anything like it.” When asked what the disturbance could be, the renowned geologist was at a quandary. “It’s easier to say what it cannot be, which is an undersea volcano or a heretofore undiscovered faultline. Rather, these recent quakes seem to be caused by a solid object being forced upwards through the earth’s crust. Impossible, I know, but that’s what it looks like nonetheless.” When asked how big this “object” appeared to be, Paulson replied with a smile: “Oh, my…much bigger than Manhattan. That is why it’s impossible, you see?”
* * *
(from the police report of NYPD Detective Sergeant Rick Sjoerdsma:)
After meeting with Officers Charles and Grant of NY Transit Police, plus compiling the accounts of numerous eyewitnesses (see attached) I have been able to piece together the events of the previous two weeks at the Times Square subway station and the connecting tunnels. The picture that emerges is not pretty and it frankly makes no sense. I’ve talked to people from some of the colleges, and also guys from the Health Department, and nobody can explain why all the rats and even all the bugs, have been clearing out. Sewer workers have been reporting the same kinds of things. People who’ve seen the rats say it’s like watching cattle getting herded along the tracks and up the stairwells. Weird, but that’s what they’ve told me.
The Transit employees I’ve talked with all agree that the bums have all disappeared, too. Right after the rats started leaving. Only the homeless people didn’t pack up and vacate. They just disappeared, like I first said. My men found their cardboard boxes and blankets, their hordes of food and booze. But no bums.
Lots of people have reported seeing a green-glowing fog in the tunnels.
One trainman I talked to (who pleaded with me not to use his name and agreed to talk only when I put that promise in writing) says he saw some kind of monsters in the tunnels, also in the green fog. He said they were big, but didn’t look like any animals he’d ever seen, more like weird vegetables or plants with long waving stems or tendrils, really. He said they moved quickly out of the way of his high speed train, almost melting into the darkness of the tunnel walls. The guy doesn’t sound crazy, but what would you think? No wonder he doesn’t want his boss to find out what kind of trash he’s talking…
The thing that bugs me the most about the commuters who’ve been turning up missing is that we haven’t been able to find a trace of evidence, not a thing. It’s like these people never existed.
* * *
MEMO
TO:
Isabel Cortez
FROM:
Albert Hazred, Chairman of the Board
The Arkham Foundation would like to personally thank you for overseeing the production of Lovecraft, I Love You! Your diligence and attention to detail has been as much responsible for the show’s outrageous success as its obviously seductive and powerful content.
Please accept as a bonus, a week’s vacation aboard the Foundation’s yacht, The Innsmouth, which will be sailing this week for a cruise to selected archeological sites. It will be an experience that would give me great displeasure were you to miss out.
* * *
(from a CNN tape of an-on-the-scene broadcast)
…thank you, Bernard! This is Mark Ashton in New York City coming to you live from the roof of the World Trade Center. Behind and below me lies the historic tableau of the city’s harbor and Statue of Liberty, whose waters are dotted wi
th the hulls of hundreds of ships. The boats you see are a collection of scientific and military craft, as well as those of onlookers who have been repeatedly warned to keep their distance. The underwater disturbances of the previous weeks in the waters off Manhattan have been closely monitored after it was ascertained that an immense object is rising up from the ocean floor. Just exactly what this object might be has been beyond speculation and the authorities are not talking. The evacuation of the city has been as orderly as could be hoped for. Looting and violence have been sporadic and kept under control in most precincts. As I look towards the west, I see—uh, can you hold on one moment, please…? We have an open channel to the NYPD’s Special Task Force Command Center…I’m getting something from their spokesperson…
(the camera-view shakes violently, the microphone captures a terrible, rolling rumble, like thunder but much longer and louder…)
Something is definitely happening…What? I can’t get all of that! Bernard, our signal’s breaking up with the Command Center, but I can see from our vantage point that something is happening out there on the water. Another series of temblors have rolled beneath the city and the Twin Tower itself is swaying in reaction! I can see something out in the harbor breaking the surface! It’s glistening white and—Jesus, it’s fucking huge!
(another quake rocks the camera-view, this time violently, and the image is tilted severely, then rezzed out, but the audio continues…)
Oh-my-God! What is that thing?! The ships! The Statue of Liberty—! Everything’s going down! We’re getting outta here as soon as possible. The building is swaying wildly now! Christ, Gary, get that chopper in here! Jesus, it’s big! It’s impossi—
Finally, we come to the last story.
It is, as I write this, the most recent short fiction I have written, although it will soon be eclipsed by something newer because, as you must realize by now, there are always new editors, new anthologies, and of course there are always new stories to be told.
This one was also inspired by the good folks at Tekno Books, who had sold a book of stories to a regional publisher up here in New England about one of the seacoast’s most recognizable landmarks—its lighthouses. Of course, this anthology had a twist—haunted lighthouses.
Friends, I gotta tell you, when I read the letter of invitation from editor John Helfers, I audibly groaned. I couldn’t imagine too many more themes showing more tread-wear than this one. The deadline was months away, and I figured, hey, you never know. Maybe something would hit me, but all I knew was there was no way I was doing some tired old business about a lighthouse keeper going stir-crazy and killing somebody or himself, or some sea-captain who haunts a lighthouse because the keeper forgot to turn it on and…whoops!-sorry-about-your-shipwreck-sir!
Yeah, this one would be tough. I called my buddy Rick Hautala, who, being one of the most suspicious of Suspects, to see if he had been invited to contribute to this worthy tome. Of course he had…
I asked him if he’d come up with anything yet, and he said he was working on a tale but it wasn’t finished yet. I told him I was striking out, but wouldn’t be giving up on it. I figured I would follow the advice I talked about in the beginning of this book, and I started to ask the next question…
Where do you find lighthouses? By water.
Okay, What do they do? Show boats a safe passage.
Right, well then, what kind of boats?
What kind of boats indeed…
Something got me thinking about the variety of vessels that might need some sort of illumination, and I came up with the perfect craft for my tale1
But as I told the story and reached the ending, I realized I didn’t have one. There was only one thing to do—check in with my personal Muse, Elizabeth, who agreed with me in so many words by saying: “The ending is terrible. You need to do it like this…”
I agreed, worked it out on the page, and now, the tale wraps up, no pun intended, brilliantly.
And so, with that final revelation out of the way, I’ll leave you in the hope you’ve enjoyed your journey through the “forests of the night.”2
1 The title, by the way, for all you non-Latin scholars (and I suspect you are legion), means “light and truth.”
2 If you’ve been inspired, enriched, entertained, or angered, then I’ve probably done my job.
“You want me to do what?” said Carlo Duarte.
He was sitting in a booth in a bar’n’grill called The Coach’s Place in White River Junction, Vermont. Two different televisions displayed different college basketball games. Across from him was a woman dressed in black, and everything about her could be described by the word indeterminate.
Her age for starters, thought Carlo. She didn’t look old, per se, but her smooth, elliptical face was somehow endowed with a depth of wisdom, experience, and that sort of thing. And going right along with that ambiguous leit-motif, Carlo was not certain whether or not this woman was attractive or plain. Sometimes, when the light and shadows played their parts, and she turned her head a certain way, her features combined to be intriguing and interesting in ways that only the face of a woman can be. At others, she looked odd, homely, or downright scary.
Her style of dress was also hard to pin down, so to speak. Kind of a decadent chic-ness. Loose and flowing blouse and long skirt, all black, evocative of the pen-and-inks of Aubrey Beardsley. Add a scarf here, some rings and bracelets, and she had a “look,” that got your attention, but for reasons that were…well, indeterminate.
Same for her name. He was sure she’d given it to him when he’d called her for the job interview, and she’d said it again when they met for lunch, but damned if he could remember it. Ms. Stephanie…? Something like that. Well, it didn’t matter, really. Either he’d remember it, or she’d tell him again.
“Sir,” she said in soft tones that still managed to convey her lack of patience with fools. “I made it quite clear. We’re looking for a lighthouse keeper…on the White River. Are you interested, or not?”
Carlo held up his hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, yeah, of course I am. It would be perfect for me…but I never knew there was ever a lighthouse around here. Especially on the White River.”
She gave him a patronizing and brief smile. “There has been none, till now. My…colleagues are building it as we speak.”
“Oh, okay,” said Carlo. “I understand. That’s cool—when will it be ready?”
“Any time now…” The woman reached out and took both his hands in her own, and her touch was neither warm nor cold. “Tell me a little more about yourself. You said you’re thirty-eight years old. Any relatives nearby? Wives? Ex-wives? Girlfriends, boyfriends? Any big commitments looming?”
Carlo withdrew his hands as he leaned back in the booth, placed them casually behind his head. “Well, like I said on the phone, I’m an artist. I do freelance illustration for some of the companies around here, but it’s not steady income. I’m trying to get enough paintings finished to get a gallery interested, but that takes time.”
“And you think being a light-keeper would afford you that time?”
“Yes, I do.” He paused. “Why, am I wrong?”
“No, not at all. You’ll have all the time in the world. Your duties will allow you to paint. But never be distracted from your one primary duty—to keep the light burning.”
“No problem,” said Carlo.
“No distractions. Hence the questions about the other people in your life.”
Carlo smiled, feeling a little self-conscious. “Never married. No girlfriends. It’s not that I have trouble meeting them or anything like that, but most women don’t have much patience for my lifestyle. I need to spend a lot of time alone…because of my work.”
“Perfectly understandable,” said the woman, standing up and reaching across the booth’s table to shake his hand. “I think you’ll do just fine.”
⟡
The lighthouse was located on the White River about 20 miles northwest of the Junction, where
it joined the Connecticut River on its journey south. Architecturally, it was similar to most New England lighthouses of the present and past centuries. New Hampshire granite and lots of brick masonry gave it classic substance and silhouette against the evening sky. The only thing that made it any different from any other lighthouse was its location—about 150 miles from the seacoast.
Carlo Duarte thought about that anomaly and had attempted to ask his interviewer about it, but she had said everything would he explained to him in the “fullness of time.” There were other oddities about his employment arrangement, but they were all things he didn’t even want to question—he would be paid each month in cash; it was a lot of cash; they didn’t ask for a Social Security Number, which meant no federal taxes or FICA deductions, and therefore no IRS; and absolutely no paperwork to fill out. That was copacetic with him; he believed paying and filing income taxes was voluntary under the law anyway.
Weird, yes. But a good deal as far as he was concerned.
So, in the meantime, after accepting the offer, he packed up all his painting gear into the old Chevy Blazer, plus enough clothes and supplies to last at least a few weeks, and he drove up Route 4 past Royalton until he found the dirt road leading off towards the lighthouse. With his painterly eye, Carlo had to pause to absorb the scene as evening began to leach the colors off into twilight. Despite the incongruity of the lighthouse on the White River—especially at a point where the distance from bank-to-bank was less than 200 yards, and the depth of the channel couldn’t be more than 30 feet—there was a feeling of rightness about it. Carlo couldn’t articulate what he was feeling, but he just kind of knew everything was cool.
Fearful Symmetries Page 45
