by Paul Kane
“A few. But they haven’t . . .” She trailed off.
“Haven’t solved it.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be discouraging you.”
I flashed her a bigger smile. “Oh, I’m not discouraged. The worthiest puzzle is the one no one else can solve.” I turned a piece, pulse leaping as it snapped into place. I started to turn another, then stopped. “Should I wait?”
“No, no, that’s fine. He’ll come when you’re closer to the end. It may take a while.”
I looked at her. She was leaning forward, eyes fixed on the puzzle, glittering as I turned the second piece. Then the third.
“Do you do puzzles yourself?” I asked.
She shook her head, gaze never wavering from the box as I continued to click the pieces into place.
“You’re very good,” she said.
I said nothing, only kept turning, kept hearing that satisfying click.
“No one’s ever gotten that far.” She breathed in an awestruck whisper.
“It’s almost done. You might want to get your son.”
“He’s busy. If you solve it, we can always restage it.”
I set the puzzle box down. It clacked against the glass tabletop and she jumped at the sound.
“But . . .” she began. “You were almost—”
“I trust you have a standard release form drawn up?” I said.
“Release form?”
“Giving you permission to use my name and image for promotional purposes. As well as guaranteeing me my prize, should I solve the puzzle.”
Her eyes narrowed, eyeing me as if I were an unreasonable child.
“I suppose I could get one,” she said, turning away. “Good. And I’d like to meet your son.”
She froze, shoulders stiffening. “Do you even have a son, Mrs. Collins?” I asked.
She pivoted slowly, not answering. I hefted my purse and headed for the door.
“Stop,” she said.
I turned to see a gun trained on me.
“Ah,” I said. “That’s how it is, then.”
“I would like you to complete the puzzle, Ms. Lane. In fact, I insist on it.”
I walked over and picked up the puzzle box. I turned it over in my hands, the wood so velvety smooth, so inviting, that it took all my willpower not to start turning the final pieces.
“A Lemarchand’s Configuration, I presume?”
She blinked. “You know it?”
I lifted it to eye level, peering into its dark cracks. “It’s a legendary collection of pieces. Every enthusiast has heard the story.”
“Well, I’m not an enthusiast.” She twisted the word like an insult. “My son is. The puzzle is his.”
I glanced toward the inner office and heard sounds within—an oddly wet, squelching noise, as if someone was pacing in sodden slippers.
“My son,” she said. “He solved it two years ago, and they came.”
“The Cenobites.”
“Yes. The things they did to him . . .” She shuddered. “But he escaped. He came back and I found him. He was in pain, so much pain, and the only way to ease it was to feed him.”
“Not with steak and eggs, I presume.”
She looked at me sharply and lifted the gun, as if to remind me this was a serious situation and perhaps I should be a little less blasé about the whole thing.
I went on. “So you lure people here with your contests and feed them to your darling boy. And no one wonders where they’ve gone? I find that hard to believe.”
“Do you? Puzzle enthusiasts are a solitary lot, as you might know, Sarah Lane, age thirty-four, self-employed, never married, no children, no siblings, mother deceased, father in Brazil.”
“You’ve done your research. Let me guess: after you kill me, you’ll take my keys and move my car from that distant lot, so when someone does look for me . . .”
“You were never here.”
It was a far from foolproof plan, but from the burning glow in her eyes, I could tell she was beyond caring. However, mad though she might be, outside of bad movies, I suspect villains don’t stand around explaining the situation to their victims. Which begged the question . . .
I turned the puzzle over in my hands. “You do want me to solve this. That’s why you run the contests, looking for someone who can do it. But why would you want the box opened if you’ve seen what happens?”
“I want to summon them. Those Cenobites. To take him back.” She met my gaze. “There is a limit to maternal obligation.”
“If I succeed, you’ll be free of your son, and if I fail, he’ll be fed.”
“Precisely. So”—she waved the gun at the puzzle—“if you please.”
I completed another twist and again heard the satisfying click of success. As I started the next, she leaned in, gun lowering, gaze fixed once more on the wooden box. The piece clicked into place. I pulled my hand back, reaching to the other side to complete the final turn, and grabbed her wrist, shoving the gun up.
She didn’t relinquish the weapon. Put up a good fight for her age, actually. But I was younger, faster, stronger, and when the gun fired, it wasn’t my head it was pointing at.
As I knelt beside her body, an unearthly wail battered my eardrums. I looked up to see a figure in the doorway of the inner office. He looked as if he’d been ripped apart and haphazardly sewn back together, every joint from his jaw to his fingers gaping, held together with thick black thread, shredded flesh hanging, bones poking through.
When I didn’t run away screaming, he hesitated, confused. Then he charged. I lifted the gun and put a bullet through his gut. He fell back with a howl.
“Hurts, I know. I can’t kill you, but sometimes, that’s worse, isn’t it? Not being able to die.”
With a roar, he charged again. I fired again. He screamed again.
“I have a few questions to ask—”
“I’m not telling you anything,” he said, his garbled voice wheezing through the gap in his severed neck.
“Is that a challenge?” I smiled. “Excellent. Let’s begin, then.”
He eventually answered all my questions. Then I let him feed off the blood of his mother and left, locking the door behind me. I took the puzzle box, of course. At home, I put it on a shelf with the others.
As collections went, this one was pitiably small, and had taken me more time and effort to accumulate than I cared to calculate. But it would, one day, be worth it. What I collected was not simply the puzzles, but their stories—the stories of those who opened them, and the mistakes they had made.
Normally, I was there to witness the story unfolding. As Nell Collins said, the boxes were not easy to open, and there were far more collectors who knew the story than those who could unlock the configurations. So they went looking for someone who could. They found me, and I opened all but the last twist. That final one I left for them. They conquered the puzzle . . . then it conquered them, while I hid and watched, and collected their story.
Someday, when I had enough stories, I would solve the greatest puzzle of all—how to use the box properly and win the glories foretold. And then, I would make that final turn myself.
The doorbell rang.
I took one last look at the new puzzle box, running my fingers over the wood. An exquisite piece, and an equally rare story to go with it. An excellent addition to my collection. Then I closed the secret closet. Locked it. Double-locked it. Put the mirror back in place over the door. I am a careful woman.
Daniel was at the door to take me to dinner. As we were leaving, my BlackBerry pinged, telling me I had a message. He gave me a look.
“Yes, I’ll turn it off,” I said.
As I did, I checked the message. It was from a collector who’d heard of my reputation and hoped I could help with a puzzle box he’d just acquired. I would, of course. And it would probably turn out to be a mere imitation. Most were. But I never turned down any possibility, however slight, to add another story to my collection.
Bulimia
Richard Christian Matheson
I stare.
Oval water; a tomb.
Fingernails press soft locks that guard throat.
Stomach kneads; surrenders.
I rise to white sink. Rinse acrid taste. Kneel on floor, again.
Lean over, see my reflection. My mouth stretches. I feel the shapes slide out; a struggling gush. I shut eyes.
Hear them; distant, tiny survivors on ugly sea. Diseased murmurs.
I look into undigested broth.
See them. Paddling, furiously. Staring up at me. Malformed; hideous. I flush them. Get closer as they’re swallowed into plumbing. Drowning voices hiss, shriek. Swirl into bowl.
The water is clear.
I feel them stirring inside. Impurities. Angry poisons. I can never be perfect with them in me. It is my fault.
I look at my watch.
Minutes. He’s waiting. Drinking coffee. Happy.
My stomach twists. Vicious things gnaw, hold tighter. I shove raw fingers between lips. Force more out. They fight me. Hate me. Suddenly howl up my throat, lunge from me, into vile water. Ghastly legs splashing. Struggling. Resentful noises bubble. They leer up with despising mouths, swallowing water, unable to breathe.
I’m still not empty.
I bury three fingers into throat; raw, burned reflex. Some refuse spasms; grip harder. Others can’t. They shriek through my cracked lips, infuriated; evicted. Spiderlike faces spit up at me as they drop into the septic bowl; thrash in bile, dark nails scratching toilet’s side. They cling to one another, choke toxic water, know they are dying. One reaches to escape. I quickly flush them. Listen to them drown.
I force more out; teeth bared over toilet, dress damp.
They plunge from my mouth. Writhing anemones. Some with thorns that scrape my throat. Others covered with countless, repulsive mouths from which more slither. Cruel ones stare, unafraid. Use the dead as rafts, crablike pincers reaching at me, tongues clicking. Others jet from my guts like sticky, black string, nesting on the water; infected islands.
I press harder. Chaotic, colorless ones emerge like blown glass. They try to hide, curl passively; eyes pleading. Always the last. The ones I’ve had forever; since I was little and puzzles crept. When everything went bad. When I couldn’t protect myself. Flee mazes of hurt.
They hope I’ll reprieve them. They float; confused, bloodred shells shining. The strong ones try to hurt me with their sadisms. The weak ones are scared of them. Traumatized shards. In time, they will all get me.
I hate them. My loathing zoo. I flush them. Watch them suffer.
I am ugly; broken. I deserve this.
I am finally empty. I rinse mouth. Brush teeth. Reapply lipstick. Use a drop of breath freshener. I walk back into the restaurant. Men watch me. Women. They whisper. He hugs me. Tells me he missed me. Tells me I look beautiful. He loves me. I take a bite of dessert he offers. He looks into my worthless eyes. I smile for him.
In the red, dark of me, I feel them stir.
I am filling.
Orfeo the Damned
Nancy Holder
Seriously, the man said that’s all you have to do. You twist and turn the little panels and you’re gone,” Danai told Lindsay.
They lounged like opium smokers on the big beige-tone bed Lindsay shared with Jake in their large and very beige apartment. Danai had made himself a nest of monochromatic pillows, the Grand Odalisque of the Upper East Side, and he shimmied and shook, unfolding his sinewy arms and legs, pantomiming being opened. “Away from Jake. And all this.”
Danai, a slender man with a close black buzz cut, flopped onto his side and waved his right arm like a sorcerer revealing his best trick. He was gaunt, Gypsy dark in a boatneck spandex top splotched with dark blue and crimson as if he’d been shot and his blood ran in rainbows. The multiple zippers of his baggy black parachute pants striated his quads like ligaments or scars.
He extended his gnarled, bare foot toward the ceiling and held out the box in his open palm à la abracadabra toward Lindsay, her one true serpent in the garden. Danai loved her so much. He pitied her. He understood how terribly unhappy she was. Or thought he did. She wasn’t that unhappy. She wasn’t.
“It takes you someplace,” he whispered. “It’s like drugs, or hypnosis. It’s virtual reality at its best. Or so he promised.”
“He” being some street vendor. She was shaking. Her therapist had told her to stay away from Danai, but here he was, and she could feel herself beginning to melt down.
“Then why don’t you twist and turn the little panels?” she asked him, trying to sound snarky, hearing the anxiety building in her voice. Danai wouldn’t understand; he never would. He was everything she had run away from.
All her life.
“I tried,” he confessed, crossing his eyes, mugging stupidity. “I couldn’t get it to work. Besides, you were always better at twisting and turning.” He smirked, and then he sighed. “And you need an alternate reality worse than I do.”
“I don’t.” Her stomach clenched. “I’m very happy here. With Jake. This is me.” With the help of antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds. Evened out. Safe.
“Well, anyway, I got mixed up. I thought it was your birthday, so here’s your present.”
He held it out to her. In her sedately lit, inoffensive bedroom, it shone like a black-hearted Rubik’s Cube limned in damascene. Symbols and scrollwork glittered like molten promises. Danai had made promises—never to leave her, and to bust her out if she ever gave the word. But she had made her choice. The right choice.
Then why was Dr. Everson increasing her dosage? Why couldn’t she sleep? Or clean the house or make dinner?
She touched the box. There was a spark—static electricity—and Danai raised a beautifully plucked brow in surprise. Languidly, he lay back on his elbow, leaving the object in Lindsay’s grasp. Then he sank to the mattress and clasped his hands across his tight, flat stomach.
“See? It loves you best.”
“Pretty,” she said, but it wasn’t. It was frightening. Shocking, in a way she couldn’t describe—or could no longer describe. She had lost all the passionate words, the ones Danai wrapped himself in, layer upon layer, until even the most prosaic events in his life sparkled like Excalibur. Jake said Danai was a drama queen. Danai said Jake was a pompous ass. Dr. Everson told her to stay away from Danai and listen to the pompous ass. After all, he was the one she was married to.
She used to be like Danai. A dancer, a Broadway gypsy, looking for signs in Chinese fortune cookies and tea leaves that it would be worth it. Buffeted by the winds of artistic yearnings. When she danced, she was fully alive. But between gigs, there was cutting, and a couple of suicide attempts. Jake didn’t know about those. No one knew. She hadn’t even told Dr. Everson all of it. Maybe he was increasing her meds in retaliation.
“You don’t really believe it would work, though,” she said, moving her gaze from it to him with extreme difficulty. It was mesmerizing. Maybe she should press on that panel. Or tap that panel . . .
. . . No.
“Of course I don’t.” He raised his chin. “But if you twist it, I’ll know you’re ready to start packing. You can move in with me again. We’ll have fun.”
Into his rat-infested walk-up hall of dreams. Danai didn’t view anything in his life as a failure, but as myriad possibilities yet to be realized. He snuggled his toes beneath her right thigh. “The man I bought it from said I would know the right person to give it to. As soon as I handed him a twenty, I saw your face in my mind.”
No, no, don’t think of me. I can’t handle it.
The front door opened. Jake was home. She sagged with relief. She wanted to start crying and she didn’t even know why.
“Hello?” he called.
“Fun’s over.” Danai slid off the bed like a snake and got to his feet. He adjusted his top as if to regain his modesty and shook his head as he helped her up. “This is so pathetic. This is not how you
were supposed to grow up.”
“I’m fine,” she said briskly.
“You’re pudgy,” he said, shuddering. “And you’re wearing pastels.”
The two filed out of the bedroom. “Hi, Jake,” she sang out. Did he hear the tremor in her voice?
There he stood, a little rounder, more wrinkled. Tireder. The quintessential man in the gray flannel suit. He was almost thirty-eight. She was twenty-six, three years older than Danai. And she felt . . . disappointed. She had been waiting to see him all day, trying to last long enough, but now that he was here, she didn’t feel the relief she had been hoping for.
Jake bent slightly so Lindsay could kiss his cheek and peered at her. She smiled harder. He sighed.
“Hello, Dan,” he said.
“Hello, Jacob,” Danai said, and if Jake heard the mocking in his voice, he ignored it.
“So . . .” Jake said, looking from her to Danai and back again. Lindsay felt a rush of intense guilt, as if Dr. Everson were standing next to Jake and both of them now saw how clearly she did not want to get well.
“I’m afraid I talked her into something crazy,” Danai went on. Jake pulled his chin in, bracing himself.
“We made borscht,” she said in a rush.
Jake considered. “Borscht’s not so crazy.”
She was flattened. Jake was right. Borscht was not crazy. But all afternoon, as she and Danai chopped beets and cabbage, her heart had fluttered. It felt like something new. Like an adventure. But it was just beet soup.
She felt her being gravitating toward Jake, seeing herself as someone Jake could be seen with. Solid, steady, understated. Danai’s apartment bulged with tacky junk. He wasn’t dreaming; he was fooling himself. Jake was her answer. Not that Danai was even an alternative prospect as a lover. He was gay.
Her eyes welled. Something inside her made her return to the bedroom and pluck up the box. It had built up another static charge and it zapped her, hard.
“What’s that?” Jake asked.
She lifted it up, showing him. “It’s a puzzle box. Danai gave it to me.”
A frown flickered over Danai’s features, and she felt a rush of shame for sharing any part of their afternoon with Jake. He’s my husband, she wanted to remind Danai. But then he would probably tell her that traditional heterosexual marriage was on the way out—and good thing, too, because it ruined people.
