The Essential Clive Barker

by Clive Barker

  He felt close to exploding. Surely the world outside his head—the room, and the birds beyond the door—they, for all their shrieking excesses, could not be as overwhelming as his memories. Better that, he thought, and tried to open his eyes. But they wouldn’t unglue. Tears or pus or needle and thread had sealed them up.

  He thought of the faces of the Cenobites: the hooks, the chains. Had they worked some similar surgery upon him, locking him up behind his eyes with the parade of his history?

  In fear for his sanity, he began to address them, though he was no longer certain that they were even within earshot.

  “Why?”he asked. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  The echo of his words roared in his ears, but he scarcely attended to it. More sense impressions were swimming up from the past to torment him. Childhood still lingered on his tongue (milk and frustration) but there were adult feelings joining it now. He was grown! He was mustached and mighty, hands heavy, gut large.

  Youthful pleasures had possessed the appeal of newness, but as the years had crept on, and mild sensation lost its potency, stronger and stronger experiences had been called for. And here they came again, more pungent for being laid in the darkness at the back of his head.

  He felt untold tastes upon his tongue: bitter, sweet, sour, salty, smelled spice and shit and his mother’s hair; saw cities and skies; saw speed, saw deeps; broke bread with men now dead and was scalded by the heat of their spittle on his cheek.

  And of course there were women.

  Always, amid the flurry and confusion, memories of women appeared, assaulting him with their scents, their textures, their tastes.

  The proximity of this harem aroused him, despite circumstances. He opened his trousers and caressed his cock, more eager to have the seed spilled and so be freed of these creatures than for the pleasure of it.

  He was dimly aware, as he worked his inches, that he must make a pitiful sight: a blind man in an empty room, aroused for a dream’s sake. But the wracking, joyless orgasm failed to even slow the relentless display. His knees buckled, and his body collapsed to the boards where his spunk had fallen. There was a spasm of pain as he hit the floor, but the response was washed away before another wave of memories.

  He rolled onto his back, and screamed; screamed and begged for an end to it, but the sensations only rose higher still, whipped to fresh heights with every prayer for cessation he offered up.

  The pleas became a single sound, words and sense eclipsed by panic. It seemed there was no end to this, but madness. No hope but to be lost to hope.

  As he formulated this last, despairing thought, the torment stopped.

  All at once; all of it. Gone. Sight, sound, touch, taste, smell. He was abruptly bereft of them all. There were seconds then when he doubted his very existence. Two heartbeats, three, four.

  On the fifth beat, he opened his eyes. The room was empty, the doves and the piss pot gone. The door was closed.

  Gingerly, he sat up. His limbs were tingling; his head, wrist and bladder ached.

  And then—a movement at the other end of the room drew his attention.

  Where, two moments before, there had been an empty space, there was now a figure. It was the fourth Cenobite, the one that had never spoken, nor shown its face. Not it, he now saw: but she. The hood it had worn had been discarded, as had the robes. The woman beneath was gray yet gleaming, her lips bloody, her legs parted so that the elaborate scarification of her pubis was displayed. She sat on a pile of rotting human heads, and smiled in welcome.

  The collision of sensuality and death appalled him. Could he have any doubt that she had personally dispatched these victims? Their rot was beneath her nails, and their tongues—twenty or more—lay out in ranks on her oiled thighs, as if awaiting entrance. Nor did he doubt that the brains now seeping from their ears and nostrils had been driven to insanity before a blow or a kiss had stopped their hearts.

  Kircher had lied to him—either that or he’d been horribly deceived. There was no pleasure in the air; or at least not as humankind understood it.

  He had made a mistake opening Lemarchand’s box. A very terrible mistake.

  “Oh, so you’ve finished dreaming,” said the Cenobite, perusing him as he lay panting on the bare boards. “Good.”

  She stood up. The tongues fell to the floor, like a rain of slugs.

  “Now we can begin,” she said.

  From The Great and Secret Show

  Tommy-Ray had been in the driver’s seat of a car since his sixteenth birthday. Wheels had signaled freedom from Momma, the Pastor, the Grove, and all they stood for. Now he was heading back to the very place a few years ago he couldn’t have escaped from fast enough, his foot on the accelerator every mile of the way. He wanted to walk the Grove again with the news his body carried, wanted to go back to his father, who’d taught him so much. Until the Jaff, the best life had offered was an offshore wind and a west swell at Topanga; him on a crest knowing the girls were all watching him from the beach. But he’d always known those high times couldn’t last forever. New heroes came along, summer after summer. He’d been one of them, supplanting surfers no more than a couple of years older, who weren’t quite as lithe. Boy-men like himself who’d been the cream of the swell the season before, suddenly old news. He wasn’t stupid. He knew it was only a matter of time before he joined their ranks.

  But now, he had a purpose in his belly and brain he’d never had before. He’d discovered ways to think and behave the airheads at Topanga never even guessed existed. Much of that he had to thank the Jaff for. But even his father, for all his wild advice, hadn’t prepared him for what had happened at the Mission. He was a myth now. Death at the wheel of a Chevy, racing for home. He knew music that would have people dancing till they dropped. And when they dropped, and went to meat, he knew all about that too. He’d seen the spectacle at work on his own flesh. It gave him a boner remembering.

  But the night’s fun had only just started. Less than a hundred miles north of the Mission his route took him through a small village on the fringes of which lay a cemetery. The moon was still high. Its brightness gleamed on the tombs, washing the color from the flowers that were laid here and there. He stopped the car, to get a better look. After all, this was his territory from now on. It was home.

  If he’d needed any further proof that what had happened at the Mission was not the invention of a crazy man, he got it when he pushed open the gate and wandered in. There was no wind to stir the grass, which grew to knee height in several places where tombs had been left untended. But there was movement there nevertheless. He advanced a few more paces, and saw human figures rising into view from a dozen places. They were dead. Had their appearance not testified to the fact the luminescence of their bodies—which were as bright as the bone shard he’d found beside the car—would have marked them as part of his clan.

  They knew who had come to visit them. Their eyes, or in the case of the ancients among them, their sockets, were set on him as they moved to do him homage. None even glanced at the ground as they came, though it was uneven. They knew this turf too well, familiar with the spots where badly built tombs had toppled, or a casket been pushed back up to the surface by some motion in the earth. Their progress was, however, slow. He was in no hurry. He sat himself down on the grave which contained, the stone recorded, seven children and their mother, and watched the ghosts come his way. The closer they came the more of their condition he saw. It wasn’t pretty. A wind blew out of them, twisting them out of true. Their faces were either too wide or too long, their eyes bulging, their mouths blown open, cheeks flopping. Their ugliness put Tommy-Ray in mind of a film he’d seen of pilots enduring G-force, the difference being that these were not volunteers. They suffered against their will.

  He was not disturbed in the least by their distortions; nor by the holes in their wretched bodies, or their slashed and severed limbs. It was nothing he hadn’t seen in comic books by the age of six; or on a ghost-train ride. Th
e horrors were everywhere, if you wanted to look. On bubble-gum cards, and Saturday morning cartoons, or in the stores on T-shirts and album covers. He smiled to think of that. There were outposts of his empire everywhere. No place was untouched by the Death-Boy’s finger.

  The speediest of these, his first devotees, was a man who looked to have died young, and recently. He wore a pair of jeans two sizes too big for him, and a muscle shirt adorned with a hand presenting the fuck sign to the world. He also wore a hat, which he took off when he came within a few yards of Tommy-Ray. The head beneath had been practically shaved, exposing several long cuts to view. The fatal wounds, presumably. There was no blood out of them now; just a whine of the wind that blew through the man’s gut.

  A little distance from Tommy-Ray he stopped.

  “Do you speak?” the Death-Boy asked him.

  The man opened his mouth, which was already wide, a little wider, and proceeded to make a reply as best he could, by working it up from his throat. Watching him, Tommy-Ray remembered a performer he’d seen on a late show, who’d swallowed and then regurgitated live goldfish. Though it was several years ago the sight had struck a chord in Tommy-Ray’s imagination. The spectacle of a man able to reverse his system by practice, vomiting up what he’d held in his throat—not in the stomach surely; no fish, however scaly, could survive in acid—had been worth the queasiness he’d felt while watching. Now the Fuck-You-Man was giving a similar performance, only with words instead of fishes. They came at last, but dry as his innards.

  “Yes,” he said, “I speak.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Tommy-Ray asked.

  The man made a moan.

  “Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “I’m the Death-Boy, and you’re the Fuck-You-Man. How ‘bout that? Don’t we make a pair?”

  “You’re here for us,” the dead man said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re not buried. Not blessed.”

  “Don’t look at me for help,” Tommy-Ray said. “I’m burying nobody. I came to look because this is my kind of place now. I’m going to be King of the Dead.”

  “Yes?”

  “Depend on it.”

  Another of the lost souls—a wide-hipped woman—had approached, and puked up some words of her own.

  “You …” she said, “are shining.”

  “Yeah?” said Tommy-Ray. “Doesn’t surprise me. You’re bright too. Real bright.”

  “We belong together,” the woman said.

  “All of us,” said a third cadaver.

  “Now you’re getting the picture.”

  “Save us,” said the woman.

  “I already told the Fuck-You-Man,” Tommy-Ray said, “I’m burying nobody.”

  “We’ll follow you,” the woman said.

  “Follow?” Tommy-Ray replied, a shudder of excitement running down his spine at the idea of returning to the Grove with such a congregation in tow. Maybe there were other places he could visit along the way, and swell the numbers as he went.

  “I like the idea,” he said. “But how?”

  “You lead. We’ll follow,” came the response.

  Tommy-Ray stood up. “Why not?” he said, and started back toward the car. Even as he went he found himself thinking: this is going to be the end of me …

  And thinking, didn’t care.

  Once at the wheel he looked back toward the cemetery. A wind had blown up from somewhere, and in it he saw the company that he’d chosen to keep seem to dissolve, their bodies coming undone as though they were made of sand, and being blown apart. Specks of their dust blew in his face. He squinted against it, unwilling to look away from the spectacle. Though their bodies were disappearing he could still hear their howls. They were like the wind, or were the wind, making their presence known. With their dissolution complete he turned from the blast, and put his foot on the accelerator. The car leaped forward, kicking up another spurt of dust to join the pursuing dervishes.

  He had been right about there being more places along the route to gather ghosts. I’ll always be right from now on, he thought. Death’s never wrong; never, ever wrong. He found another cemetery within an hour’s drive of the first, with a dust dervish of half-dissolved souls running back and forth along its front wall like a dog on a leash, impatiently awaiting the arrival of its master. Word of his coming had gone before him apparently. They were waiting, these souls, ready to join the throng. He didn’t even have to slow the car. At his approach the dust storm came to meet him, momentarily smothering the vehicle before rising to join the souls behind. Tommy-Ray just drove straight on.

  Toward dawn his unhappy band found yet more adherents. There had been a collision at a crossroads, earlier in the night. There was broken glass scattered across the road; blood; and one of the two cars—now barely recognizable as such—overturned at the side of the road. He slowed to look, not expecting there to be any haunters here, but even as he did so he heard the now familiar whining wind and saw two wretched forms, a man and a woman, appear from the darkness. They’d not yet got the trick of their condition. The wind that blew through them, or out of them, threatened with every faltering step they took to throw them over onto their broken heads. But newly dead as they were, they sensed their Lord in Tommy-Ray, and came obediently. He smiled to see them; their fresh wounds (glass in their faces, in their eyes) excited him.

  There was no exchange of words. As they drew closer they seemed to take a signal from their comrades in death behind Tommy-Ray’s car, allowing their bodies to erode completely, and join the wind.

  His legion swelled, Tommy-Ray drove on.

  There were other such meetings along the way; they seemed to multiply the further north he drove, as though word of his approach went through the earth, from buried thing to buried thing, graveyard whispers, so that there were dusty phantoms waiting all along the way. By no means all of them had come to join the party. Some had apparently come simply to stare at the passing parade. There was fear on their faces when they looked at Tommy-Ray. He’d become the Terror in the ghost-train now, and they were the chilled punters. There were hierarchies even among the dead it seemed, and he was too elevated a company for many of them to keep; his ambition too great, his appetite too depraved. They preferred quiet rot to such adventure.

  It was early morning by the time he reached the nameless hick town in which he’d lost his wallet, but the daylight did not reveal the host in the dust storm that followed him. To any who chose to look—and few did, in such a blinding wind—a cloud of dirty air came in the car’s wake; that was the sum of it.

  He had other business here than the collecting of lost souls—though he didn’t doubt for a moment that in such a wretched place life was quickly and violently over, and many bodies never laid to sanctified rest. No, his business here was revenge upon the pocket-picker. Or if not upon him, at least upon the den where it had happened. He found the place easily. The front door wasn’t locked, as he’d expected at such an early hour. Nor, once he stepped inside, did he find the bar empty. Last night’s drinkers were still scattered around the place, in various stages of collapse. One lay facedown on the floor, vomit spattered around him. Another two were sprawled at tables. Behind the bar itself was a man Tommy-Ray vaguely remembered as the doorman who’d taken his money for the backroom show. A lump of a man, with a face that looked to have been bruised so many times it’d never lose the stain.

  “Looking for someone?” he demanded to know.

  Tommy-Ray ignored him, crossing to the door that let on the arena where he’d seen the woman and the dog performing. It was open. The space beyond was empty, the players gone home to their beds and their kennels. The barman was a yard from him when he turned back into the bar.

  “I asked a fucking question,” he said.

  Tommy-Ray was a little taken aback by the man’s blindness. Did he not recognize the fact that he was speaking to a transformed creature? Had his perception been so dulled by years of drinking
and dog shows he couldn’t see the Death-Boy when he came visiting? More fool he.

  “Get out of my way,” Tommy-Ray said.

  Instead, the man took hold of the front of Tommy-Ray’s shirt. “You been here before,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Left something behind, did you?”

  He pulled Tommy-Ray closer, till they were practically nose to nose. He had a sick man’s breath.

  “I’d let go if I were you,” Tommy-Ray warned.

  The man looked amused at this. “You’re looking to get your fucking balls ripped off,” he said. “Or do you want to join the show?” His eyes widened at this notion. “Is that what you came looking for? An audition?”

  “I told you …,” Tommy-Ray began.

  “I don’t give a fuck what you told me. I’m doing the talking now. Hear me?” He put one vast hand over Tommy-Ray’s mouth. “So … do you want to show me something or not?”

  The image of what he’d seen in the room behind him came back into Tommy-Ray’s head as he stared up at his assaulter: the woman, glassy-eyed; the dog, glassy-eyed. He’d seen death here, in life. He opened his mouth against the man’s palm, and pressed his tongue against the stale skin.

  The man grinned.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  He dropped his hand from Tommy-Ray’s face. “You got something to show?” he said again.

  “Here …,” Tommy-Ray murmured.

  “What?”

  “Come in … come in …”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Not talking to you. Here. Come … in … here.” His gaze went from the man’s face to the door.

  “Don’t give me shit, kid,” the man responded. “You’re on your own.”

  “Come in!” Tommy-Ray yelled.

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  “Come in!”

  His din maddened the man. He hit Tommy-Ray across the face, so hard the blow knocked the boy out of his grip to the floor. Tommy-Ray didn’t get up. He simply stared at the door, and made his invitation one more time.