But Mother Nature will only whisper, “Too early.” They need to wait just a little longer. Being younger, they can afford to wait until a few more have died.
Mother Nature and Saint Gut-Free, they could outlive old Whittier and sick Miss Sneezy.
Looking around at the rest of us, you'd bet Agent Tattletale and Chef Assassin won't last another day. The Countess Foresight, her brocade chest has stopped moving up and down, and her lips have turned blue. Even the Reverend Godless, his plucked eyebrows have stopped trying to grow back.
No, the longer they can wait, the less ways the money will have to be split.
Her brass bells ringing, the red henna vines on her hands, Mother Nature slips off one of the Saint's shoes. Her fingers touching just the pleasure centers of his sole, she holds on, her touch rolling his eyes backward in his head.
No, Mother Nature and Saint Gut-Free can have it all. All the money, she says, still touching him down there. All the glory. All the pity.
His eyes rolled up, blind, white as hard-boiled eggs, his eyelashes flutter until he jerks his foot away, Saint Gut-Free saying:
“Mnye etoh nadoh kahk zoobee v zadnetze.”
His pant legs and shirttails, they rip and stretch where they're glued to the stage with blood, and the Saint drags himself to his feet and says he's got to get out.
Not yet, says Mother Nature. Her voice a teeth-together, clenched hiss.
Saint Gut-Free takes a step and stumbles. His legs buckle, and he falls to his hands and knees. Crawling toward the open door, he says, “How can I stop them?”
And, reaching after him, Mother Nature catches her fingers hooked around his ankle and says, “Wait.”
The path where the sunlight leads them to the door, there the concrete floor feels warm. The two of them crawling, they close their eyes, blinded by the brightness, feeling their way by where the floor is warmer, Brailling with their hands and knees until they find the doorframe with the fingertips they have left. They find the sunlight with the skin of their lips and eyelids.
In the alley's narrow blue sky, birds soar back and forth. Birds and clouds that aren't cobwebs. In a blue that isn't velvet or paint.
With his head stuck out the door, Saint Gut-Free says, “I know where we're at.” Squinting, he says, “They're still here.” He points with one hand, saying, “Miss Sneezy, wait . . .”
Mother Nature's fingers holding tight to his shirt and the waist of his pants, he keeps crawling, swimming, saying, “Please, stop.”
Half out the door, his hands dragging him through the broken glass and trash of the alley, all of the beautiful garbage warm from the afternoon sun, Saint Gut-Free says, “Stop!”
While two figures stagger toward the alley's entrance: the girl close by, the old man almost a city block away, his arm raised as a taxi pulls to the curb.
Toward this, the Saint shouts, “Miss Sneezy!”
He shouts, “Wait!”
Miss Sneezy turns to look.
And . . . then . . . and . . . Shooo-rook!
The knife from the floor, the paring knife that Chef Assassin tossed at Mr. Whittier, Mother Nature's brought it with them.
That knife sticking out of Miss Sneezy's chest, it still shakes with each beat of her heart, shaking less and less as Mother Nature and Saint Gut-Free drag her back inside the door. Back into the dark.
The knife shakes less as they climb to their feet and wrestle the door shut, the metal rollers squealing. The sky, getting more narrow, until the birds and clouds and blue are gone.
In the alley, Mr. Whittier's voice shouts from closer and closer, for them to stop.
The knife shakes even less as Mother Nature says, “I told you:
“Not yet.”
And then the knife stands still. The coughing, sniffing, sneezing little person we've waited to see die from the day we arrived here—at last, dead.
We haven't so much saved the world as we've preserved our audience. Kept alive the people to watch us on television, read our books, go to our some-day movie. Our consumer base.
Saint Gut-Free holding the door shut, the lock clicks open from the outside. The knob rattling. The Saint clicks it locked, and again it clicks open.
The Saint clicks it shut, saying, “No.” And the lock clicks open, turned by a key from the outside.
Back in the dark, back in the cold, Mother Nature pulls the sticky blade out of Miss Sneezy. Mother Nature sticks the blade into the lock and snaps it off.
The lock, ruined. The knife, ruined. Poor Miss Sneezy, with her red eyes and runny nose, reduced to being a prop in our story. A person made into an object. As if you cut open a rag doll with a silly name, and found inside: Real intestines, real lungs, a beating heart, blood. A lot of hot, sticky blood.
Now the story split another less way. What was done to us.
For now, we're still here. In our dim circle around the ghost light.
The voice of Mr. Whittier, he's wailing outside the steel door. His fists, pounding. Wanting to come inside. Not wanting to die alone.
For now we wait, repeating our story in the Museum of Us. In this, our permanent dress rehearsal.
How Mr. Whittier trapped us here. He starved and tortured us. He killed us.
We recite this: the Mythology of Us.
And someday soon, any day now, the world will come open that door and rescue us. The world will listen. Starting on that sun-glorious day, the whole world is going to love us.
The Poems
Guinea Pigs
Landmarks
Under Cover
Product Improvements
Think Tank
Trade Secrets
Erosion
For Hire
Looking Back
Job Description
Babble
The Consultant
Voir Dire
Plan B
Anticipation
American Vacations
Evolution
Shortsighted
Absolution
The Interpreter
Proof
The Stories
Guts by Saint Gut-Free
Foot Work by Mother Nature
Green Room by Miss America
Slumming by Lady Baglady
Swan Song by the Earl of Slander
Dog Years by Brandon Whittier
Ambition by the Duke of Vandals
Post-Production by Mrs. Clark
Exodus by Director Denial
Punch Drunk by the Reverend Godless
Ritual by the Matchmaker
The Nightmare Box by Mrs. Clark
Civil Twilight by Sister Vigilante
Product Placement by Chef Assassin
Speaking Bitterness by Comrade Snarky
Crippled by Agent Tattletale
Dissertation by the Missing Link
Poster Child by Mrs. Clark
Something's Got to Give by the Countess Foresight
Hot Potting by the Baroness Frostbite
Cassandra by Mrs. Clark
Evil Spirits by Miss Sneezy
Obsolete by Mr. Whittier
About the Author
Chuck Palahniuk's six novels are the best-selling Diary, Lullaby, and Fight Club, which was made into a film by director David Fincher, Survivor, Invisible Monsters, and Choke. He is also the author of the best-selling nonfiction collection Stranger Than Fiction and the profile of Portland Fugitives and Refugees, published as part of the Crown Journeys series. He lives in the Pacific Northwest.
Also by Chuck Palahniuk
Invisible Monsters
Survivor
Fight Club
Choke
Lullaby
Fugitives and Refugees
Diary
Stranger Than Fiction
PUBLISHED BY DOUBLEDAY
A division of Random House, Inc.
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Library of Congre
ss Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Palahniuk, Chuck.
Haunted: a novel of stories / Chuck Palahniuk.— 1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Artists—Fiction. 2. Prisoners—Fiction. 3. Torture victims—Fiction. 4. Social isolation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3566.A4554H38 2005
813'.54—dc22
2004059380
Copyright © 2005 by Chuck Palahniuk
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved
eISBN: 978-0-385-51583-2
v3.0
Haunted Page 37
