Weirdbook 32

by Douglas Draa

  He came at last to a wooden constructure which looked like an old mill lacking it´s windmill sails. On a crumpled paper tacked to it´s walls stood that a strange golden object was inside. An eye of some sort. Sam wanted to enter but one of the workers there pressed the door shut again. “Show is over” he grunted.

  “But I´ve got a full program ticket. No limitations” he added.

  The man laughed nastily. “It´s better you go home if you still remember the way.”

  Sam felt cold at once. Still he was nosey what kind of object was held therein. He opened the door again and saw on a platform a funnily shaped thing made of metall. It was of no real geometric origin it seemed more as if several shapes melted one into another, a mad tangle of forms…as if only half remembered from a world so very different from ours.

  There was something at his leg. Sam looked down and found that his well known fellow the black kitten was tearing at the stuff of his trouser as if to hold him back. This time he did follow the advice.

  “Ok, let´s go home. You wanna come with me?” The cat pourred as if in an answer.

  He took the way back he had come, past the women with the elves and the fortuneteller. He passed Aznagel the wizard too and left the dog cerberus also behind. Then Sam stood awestruck. There was another tent and another. In the far back stood a labyrinth of mirrors. “Wasn´t this the way back?” He thought. “Yes, I came there. But why, where is the way out?” He went past the tents and the cat followed him. The tents didn´t go on eternally but after a time he came to a high fence made of wooden beams. “Maybe it was the other way round.” He knew it was not but he had to try. The cat followed him. He tried different ways but all lead either to the building with the golden “eye” or ended at the fence. Visiting the shows he had before seen in an effort to get behind the secret he even went to the calve with the two heads and screened the ground for any signs that the tents had been mysteriously moved. When he came again to the fence he saw a hole and looked through it. All he saw of the world outsite was a strange greyish mist as if all the world outsite had vanished and there was only the sinister carnival left. Sam sat down at last. The kitten jumped into his lap and mewed sadly. “What shall I do now?” He felt all blue and miserably close to crying even if he was a big boy.

  He tried to talk to the people of the carnival, all visitors had vanished in the meanwhile, but it was no use. Either they pretented not to listen or they only smiled strangely. But what startled him most was the fact that every time he went around again there appeared less people to be there and the place seemed to turn even more sinister. The narrow lane between the tents was quiet and the shadows unusually long. A cold chill wind used to come up then and again but funnily it did not move the stuff of the tents but mysteriously seemed to follow him wherever he went. This was no good. Once when he tried a new turn he thought he saw a very dark shadow, or maybe it wasn´t a shadow, move fantastically and creeping fast over ther hull of the tents. Sam followed the kitten which jumped away in a haste.

  It felt like hours had been passing but when he checked his watch it claimed that it was 7 o´clock in the evening. “can´t be. It was already 8… hours ago.” When he checked again the hands pointed at 6 PM. “As if time turns backwards.” He looked at the sky but it was still dark.

  He held again at the strange wooden building. “Last thing I can try.” The cat mewed again but he wasn´t sure if it was in agreement or otherwise. Sam pushed the door open. Suddenly he stood in the labyrinth with the mirrors. “What the..” A strange unearthly sound made him falter. He felt that something was there. He turned slowly around and saw million times the reflections of a terrorfying face so unlike anything he had ever before beheld. He screamed but the sound was lost. The thing moved. But where was it? Was it close to him? Was he moving away or was he getting closer to it? Sam tried to find some kind of door, some halfway natural explanation how he got here. There was a doorknob and his hand reached over to it. The cat jumped away rushing into a different direction. Sam hesitated. Should he try the door? Or follow the cat? This place was strange..everything seemed to change all the time. Maybe the cat knew more. He remembered the things he had learned in school about the way the egyptians had cherished cats, bastet the cat goddess…maybe they really knew more. He turned and followed the pouring fellow.

  Three more tangles and he went through an archway all made of mirrors. There was suddenly a space, a small hill rising and a tree lighted by a mysterious pale orb. He walked to the tree and stopped. There grew heads out of the bark at least did those knobs look like heads and faces that grinned sinnister or looked in anguish.

  The cat went up in a big leap, up the tree and then placed itself on a twig looking at him with big eyes full of expectation.

  “I shall climb that tree?” Sam shook his head. “I want to get out of here, not to get up that tree.” There was this strange sound like something brushing the walls very softly. Sam cursed and started climbing up. He remembered what Aznagel the wizard had said. “My soul is a tree, maybe it isn´t such a bad idea to cling to it then” he thought. The tree was bigger then he had thought.

  He reached a certain branch beside the cat..

  Suddenly he saw from above all kinds of places and times and things that had been, were or maybe would be one day. Strange dimensions and pictures he had seen in dream when he had dared to dream so fantastically. He remembered stories he had heard about faceless creatures that were nightcrawlers called, that a mexican lady once had mentioned when they were in hollydays. The strange winds in Australia of whom he had seen a low budget documentary filmed by some enthusiastic american, winds that set up and went when there was no wind and who seemed to have some kind of conscousness or to follow a certain plan that only they knew. He thought about the wind he had felt, about the shadow that had lurked everywhere along the tents. The strange trapezohedron of which his teacher had once told him, that his brother had found on some antiquarian trip, before he went on that long journey and never came back. Also did he remember the strange thing that went with the gipsies, as it was whispered of by the bigger boys who laughed afterwards but preffered to shut their windows at night anyway.

  He had to think at all those. Maybe they were all true.

  The wizard, why had he known his name? He had not told him.

  The tree seemed to whirl about, more pictures and more scenes…some fantastic others terrorfying and scary. He closed his eyes but the feline pawed his back, nudged him into the side. He looked down, he thought he saw himself way down there waiting in anguish before the ticket stub, waiting to be let in and to be scared so he would feel his heart beat…and feel alive. “Remember the way back home”, he mumbled. A thought came to his mind. Maybe it was a bad idea, maybe he would crush himself but on the other side this place was nothing much like reality…

  He jumped down. At first it felt like cold ice water poured into his face. Then he felt that it was the night wind. But no unearthly wind, one that had reason and belonged to nature, that made the trees bow and whip and the leaves rustle at their twigs. He opened his eyes.

  Sam stood again before the ticket stub.

  “What do you want boy? Full tour or the normal roundabout?” Asked the very old man.

  Sam shook his head. “None thanks.”

  The man smiled at him grimly.

  Something mewed next to him on the ground. He turned at the cat.

  “You´re still with me then. I nearly forgot I don´t even know your name.” He knelt down and for the first time he saw that the cat wore a brass plate.

  And there stood in golden letters one word: Aznagel.

  k

  THE LAUGHTER OF GHOULS, by K. A. Opperman

  I have heard it of midnights, the laughter of ghouls,

  On the winds that have strayed through my dreaming

  As I nap in my armchair upholstered in gules,

  By the win
dow where shadows are teeming.

  What a high, awful sound is the laughter I hear—

  So exultant beneath the moon’s crescent!

  How I long through the forest autumnal and sere—

  Neath Aldebaran’s beacon rubescent—

  To go roam with the ghouls, to partake of their ways,

  And to share in their hideous laughter!—

  Would to God I could howl with the ghouls in the haze

  Of the graveyard a charnel feast after…!

  I have heard it of midnights, the laughter of ghouls,

  And the night is not long in the coming

  When my dream-driven body that gibbers and drools

  Will go join them, to madness succumbing.

  THE HOWARD FAMILY TRADITION, P. R. O’Leary

  Every time my dad went into a hotel room he would look in the closet, in the shower stall, under the beds, and then finally he would slam down on the mattresses with whatever was handy. A pillow, a suitcase, his hands. Thumping down on them, pressing with his palms, checking for signs that only he understood.

  He always did it with a smile on his face. And he always told us it was a tradition. A Howard family tradition done to bless the room and clear it of evil spirits. As kids, we loved it. After he gave the all-clear we would run into the room and start to jump on the beds. A trio of boys, pounding the evil spirits out of those terrible mattresses.

  The hotels we saw him do this in were the ones we stayed at during family vacations. The jersey shore, upstate New York, even once and a while on the beaches of North Carolina. Two or three times a year we went, since as far back as I could remember, and over the course of my childhood I started to realize something was off about my father’s strange activity. Maybe it was because I was the oldest, or maybe I was just more observant than my brothers, but they didn’t seem to notice the same things that I had.

  First, it was the behaviour of my mother. She was normally very involved, too involved in our lives, but always at these times she found something else to do. Maybe it was asking questions at the front desk, or putzing around with our luggage outside, or straightening up the mess we always left in the family car. If it was a Howard Family tradition, why did my mother leave my father alone to do it? Us kids, we just watched from outside the room, never setting a foot inside until our father was done. But our mother was never even there and only made an appearance well after the whole ritual was complete.

  Second, it was the general unease of our father when we were arriving at a hotel. Us kids, we were excited. Bouncing up and down on the back seat of the car with pent up energy, ready to explode out of it like flying worms from a can. But he always took his time getting us there, like he was gathering himself for something. I was starting to see it in how slowly he pulled the car into the parking lot. How he let it idle in the parking space a few seconds too long before turning it off. How he took longer than usual to stretch his legs before making it to the front desk to check-in.

  And third was the forced smile on his face while he went about conducting the Howard family tradition. This took a while for me to notice and it marked a maturity on my part to do so. Because it wasn’t obvious. My father, like most middle-aged men, was good at hiding his feelings.

  Maybe it was because I was already suspicious, but while he pounded the mattress I could see that the set in his jaw was too tight. His eyes were moving too quickly. The muscles of his arms and back were too tense for the easy smile he was trying to project.

  So one time, well into one of these vacations, I decided to ask him what was going on. I remember we were on the beach in Nags Head. A day so hot that the sun shining off the water was blinding your eyes and the sand was too painful to walk on. I don’t know exactly how old I was at the time, but I wasn’t yet a teenager. I was just starting to get those strange feelings when girls walked by in their bikinis.

  “Dad,” I said, plopping down besides his beach chair. “Why do you do that thing to the hotel rooms?”

  My Mom wasn’t around, having gone for a walk or something, and my brothers were playing in the surf. My Dad was just sitting there, watching the water, a cool beer in his hand, the bottle sweating. I held my palm under it to catch the cold drops of water while I waited for his answer.

  He didn’t speak at first, his expression hard to read behind sunglasses and a hat. I was about to ask again when he answered. And it wasn’t what he said that made me drop the subject. It was how he said it. There was a choke in his voice. Like something from deep down in him was trying to come out. It didn’t sound like him. It sounded scared.

  “It’s a Howard Family tradition.” was all he said, and then paused. When he next spoke he was my dad again. His voice calm, firm and friendly. “I’ll explain it to you when you’re older.”

  That glimpse into something bigger was too much for my young self to understand at the time. So I got up and ran back to the ocean, forgetting for the moment anything more important than tackling one of my brothers into a wave.

  The years went on from there. Vacations came and went and the Howard family tradition continued on unchanging. Then, my junior year of high school rolled around. My buddies and I were talking about taking a trip down to Florida for spring break. Sharing a hotel room together for the week and just having a good time away from parental supervision.

  Knowing I was old enough to be mostly responsible, my parents agreed that as long as I kept my grades up and was able to pay for the trip myself, then it would be fine with them. Doing my part in that bargain wasn’t a problem, and my friends and I had the plans finalized a week or two before we had to leave.

  I briefly wondered if I would keep up the Howard family Tradition when I was on my own. It almost felt that being given that option was like crossing over into adulthood. It had always been my father doing it. Now I had a chance to do something reserved only for him. It was a nice thought, but what would my friends think? It wasn’t something I contemplated long. There were more important logistics of our trip to think about: How to meet girls, and specifically, what to do with them once we met them.

  A few days before I was to leave my father pulled me aside. No one else was home. My brothers and my mother were out doing something or other so my dad and I had a good two hours by ourselves. We sat down in the kitchen, my dad grabbed himself a beer and, hesitating, pulled one out for me.

  “Son, you are going on a trip by yourself soon and I want to tell you a story.”

  My mind immediately thought he was going to give me the “Be Responsible” talk, or the “Don’t Talk to Strangers” talk, or god-forbid, the “Safe Sex” talk, but no. It turned out to be something very different.

  “I want to tell you about our tradition. Why I do what I do every time we get a hotel room.”

  “The Howard family tradition” I said, taking small sips of the beer. I didn’t know which was more odd: drinking with my Dad, or hearing that vulnerability creeping into his voice again.

  “The Howard family tradition” he continued, nodding his head. Sighing. Pausing. He took a big sip of his beer and started talking.

  1972.

  Your Mom and I aren’t married yet. In fact, this was so long ago we haven’t even met. I was nineteen. In my second year of college. I had plans to spend a semester off with some friends out in Colorado. So, I packed up my old Buick and headed west. It was an almost thirty hour trip. So, young as I was, I figured I could drive the whole thing by myself in two days.

  And I probably could have. I was making good time, had made it to the edge of Tennessee before I had to take a nap. Some time near midnight. Unfortunately, it was winter, and I was up in the Smoky Mountains, and it was damn cold. Too cold to sleep in the car like I had initially planned. So I drove half-asleep until I saw a sign for a motel.

  Good thing, too.I was in the middle of nowhere. The road was surrounded by dense f
orest, and twisted and turned up and down the mountains. In the state I was in, I was lucky not to run the car right off the road. But then I saw the motel, nestled in the side of the mountain, almost hidden behind giant trees. I remember what it was called, thought the name was clever: The Waterfall Inn. It’s no longer around, but at the time I was glad it was there. I pulled in and without even grabbing my bags I went looking for the front desk.

  The place was actually nice. The building was small, looked very well taken care of, and pretty clean. If I wasn’t so tired and cold I probably would have appreciated its seclusion and atmosphere. But right then all I wanted was a bed.

  I did take exception with the owners calling it an Inn, though. It was definitely a motel. Each room had its own entrance along the front of the building. Not many of them, just six on the front, maybe more in the back. There was a door marked “Office” and I made a beeline for that. Inside was a simple undecorated front desk. No one was around but ringing the bell caused an old woman to emerge from the back room. She was wearing a nightdress and yawning. She made her way over and placed a ledger on the counter for me to sign, never looking up or greeting me. Just yawning.

  Well, her yawning made me yawn and vice versa so I was eager to get through check-in and into a room. I gave her the fee (a Motel price, not an Inn price, which was good) and she gave me a key and shuffled away.

  I had room number three. I went outside, walked three doors down, opened it and flicked on the lights to give it a once over. The room was small but nice. Smelled a little stale but seemed clean. It had its own bathroom at the back, a small dresser, no TV, not back then, but there was a phone. The bed was a queen, really thick and looked soft and comfortable. The room was warm which, compared to the chill of the air outside, made me even more tired.