Beneath The Surface

by Simon Strantzas

  "Hello?"

  The inside of the window was coated with a murky condensation, as though someone had breathed heavily upon it moments before he'd arrived.

  "Is anyone there?"

  Raymond heard nothing but static. He hung up the telephone firmly, shaking his head. Instantly, the ringing resumed.

  It kept ringing as he watched it, absently pressing his palm against the side of his head. He laid his hand upon the receiver momentarily, feeling the vibrations run up his arm, then picked it up and silently listened to the line.

  There was nothing.

  The static, the garbled noises, all of it was gone. He went to hang up the receiver when he heard the voice quite clearly.

  "Are you there?"

  Raymond sputtered. "What?"

  "Are you listening?" the voice was slightly hurried, out of breath.

  "Are you — are you talking to me?"

  "Have you read it?"

  "Read?"

  "The book! The book. Have you read the book?" Raymond held the telephone away from him a moment until a deafening rush of crackling passed.

  "I don’t know wh—"

  "Everything is in the notebook. I stole it because it's all there."

  "I don't know anything about this," Raymond said. "You're calling a —"

  "It's too late. You know that, you've read the book. You've seen what the old man has—"

  "The book? What in God’s name are you talking about?"

  "Can't you smell it? That putrid stench behind everything? He has abandoned us to our end. He is dead; His corpse rots above us now."

  Raymond looked up at the plastic roof, at the inked graffiti. "Listen, you need—"

  "No!" the voice erupted. "It is you that needs to listen. You know it; like some malodorous knowledge seeping down into this world. The flies, don't you see? The flies know it! They buzz in frantic motions, searching desperately for the feast they have been promised, their blue and green bodies shimmering. The old man knew it too and he kept it secret from us all."

  "I’m hanging up."

  "Haven't you heard a word I’ve said? The smell of our rotting deity has soaked this world through, and still it sinks deeper, deeper into the bowels of the earth, straight into the underneath. When the condemned realize the only barrier left to them gone—"

  Raymond hung up the telephone. The ringing immediately resumed, but he ignored it. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the rain off his glasses.

  He trudged into the narrow opening, hoping some distance from the telephone would soothe his head. He found the trip back through the passage easier; the light from the street beyond illuminated the trash underfoot, but still he needed to keep his head down to maintain his balance. About halfway through the narrow that light disappeared. He looked up at the tall silhouette eclipsing the exit. Raymond froze, staring at the shadow as his glasses were once more blinded with rain. "I was — I was just answering the telephone," he said, straining to be heard over the storm. "It was ringing..." The shape was silent.

  "Please," Raymond said. "I just want—"

  Another shape joined it.

  And then more, filling the mouth of the alley.

  They began to lumber toward him, between the buildings single file, dragging their feet through scurrying litter. The smell of decay flooded the alley before them.

  "I don’t—" Raymond said, stepping unconsciously backward. "I don’t have any money." They did not stop, further numbers lumbering into the narrow alley. "Please, you can have anything," Raymond pleaded, his wallet in his hands; "Just leave — leave me alone..."

  Raymond retreated, money held out before him, until his back met the hard shelter of the pay telephone. He scurried inside it, and through the murky window saw only shapes in the rain, impossible shapes made by the water that poured down the plastic. The figures surrounded him, their number unclear in the dark storm.

  As the first stepped toward him into the flickering light Raymond dropped the crumpled bills he held and brought his knuckle to his teeth. The thing's features were smeared as though through a thick glass, and it placed a cracked palm flat against the fogged plastic between them. It started to pound slowly, rhythmically, and Raymond could see the line of tiny rivets start to shake loose, the frame of the window weakening. He held his umbrella tightly before him, shrinking against the rear of the shelter, watching as one by one the shapes reached the shelter, laying the full weight of their hands upon it.

  The telephone's ringing stopped just as they broke through.

  MORE TO LEARN

  THE THING CREPT up on me. It was thick and pale and coated with a viscid yellow mucus I would later mistake for paste. There occurred a sickening noise, a long drawn out slurping that encircled my head, and before I realized the danger I was in the creature struck, burrowing through my back to fill my chest with its repulsive form.

  The malodorous scent clung to me. Each time I left my tiny apartment strangers turned and stared, then they smiled as though I willfully carried the diseased thing inside of me. Even in pain I found it absurd: I was dying, yet no one would step forward to help me. I would soon come to realize the horrible truth: each of those I saw harbored within them a similar pale mass of mephitic flesh. They had all been infected, including my assistant Allison.

  She had once been a student of mine, one of the few who had eventually returned to work alongside me in the lab. I was not thrilled by her reappearance, not at first. I had enjoyed a certain notoriety being the University's only doctor in my specialized field (the details of which I must unfortunately keep discreet for reasons that will soon become only too obvious) but it did not take long before I found uses for her of which I had not previously conceived. Granted, her mind was not as finely tuned as my own, but there was something about the way she worried, about the ideas that percolated inside her, that caused me to take notice. Perhaps it was a quality of her soft voice, or some alteration of her manner — the lifting of a lithe arm, the careful step on a slim leg. She managed to capture my attention, a feat unheard of in all my years at that unnamed school.

  Needless to say, this occurred before that loathsome creature attacked me, before its slick yellow flesh penetrated my body. Until then I had been free to enjoy the life I had crafted for myself. I'd become accustomed to being submerged deep in my studies and research, all in an extended effort to understand the world inside my own cerebral cortex. I was content in my self-made isolation — it leant itself well to my pursuit of my more academic leanings, and it allowed me to avoid the throngs of the ignorant with whom I was continuously confronted. I wonder, though, in hindsight, if it was indeed ignorance I sensed in my fellow man or the cruel gestation of those foul-smelling creatures, curled like fetuses awaiting a fetid birth.

  Allison's presence in my lab often conflicted with my meditations yet I found myself intrigued. She would ask me the most private questions and I found myself revealing to her what I would not to others. I explained the three secret truths of existence that I had come to understand and accept: that the world was comprised of challenges rigged for failure; that life was a series of mistakes strung together with fits of sleep; that no amount of willpower could overcome nature's deficient programming. Because I understood these three truths, I knew I could never be happy — I was not ignorant enough. She took this information in, ran her hands through her long scarlet hair, and smiled at me. That was the first time I detected the malodorous stench I know now so well and heard the distant sound of something wet creeping towards me. Like a fool, I ignored it, and too soon I fell beneath the spell of that foul parasite.

  The pain I experienced when the thing took hold was devastating. It became increasingly difficult to retain the cohesion of my thoughts — my mind filled with carnal images at the most random of times, nauseating me and weakening my limbs until I fell again under the thing's control. I then found myself forced to perform the most revolting of acts while Allison merely watched and laughed, spewing th
e thick yellow mucus that seeped from the rotted flesh inside of her. I wondered how she could stand it — the sensation of that creature wrapped around her heart, squeezing until it felt as though she might die. I found it excruciating, and yet Allison never uttered a word. Was I the only one, I wondered, who saw what was happening?

  Everywhere I went faces smiled and laughed as though everything was fine, yet all were under the grip of their own parasites without realizing it. The foul creatures had infected everyone, robbing them of their desires, and none of the lesser minds surrounding me would admit to seeing it. Even I was tempted to ignore what was transpiring, ignore the pain of intrusion and fall victim to the euphoria it created. But I would not allow myself to be so deceived because I knew it was only a matter of time until the thing turned on me — only a matter of time until it crushed my heart. It was inevitable. The thing was evil and I had to be rid of it.

  But it was also canny, and it attuned itself to my every thought, so I had to learn to think beyond my mind, beyond the places the parasite could watch. I had to train my mind to think past all conscious thought. Somehow, I had to do the impossible if I ever again wanted my freedom.

  My studies helped. Through sheer force of will I learned to distract the foul creature with daydreams, and it did not take long to discover that those of Allison worked best. So I allowed my conscious mind to dwell upon her, dwell upon her lips, her eyes, her hair, all the while using those thoughts as a blind to keep the parasite from discovering what lay beneath. No lesser mind could have achieved it — no lesser mind would have known how. But by that method I planned and schemed and my parasite could do nothing to stop me.

  But I had not counted upon the others. Somehow, the thing inside of Allison discovered my subterfuge, and compelled her to act. She hid herself in the lab one night and waited for my arrival where she then sprung her trap. Before I knew what was happening she had her arms wrapped tight around me, immobilizing me, and covered my mouth with her own. She was using the strength the parasite had imbued her with against me, and the stench was so strong I thought I would be sick. I pushed hard against her, desperate for my freedom, and when she fell aside, disoriented, I scrambled to my feet before she could mount me once more. Bravely, I refused to submit to the thing she carried.

  Allison then changed tactics, and attempted other things — indescribable things — upon me. I could feel my parasite react as it struggled with renewed vigor to regain its hold. But I remained strong; I would not be tempted, and she would never again foul me with her touch. I pushed her once more, this time with all of my might, and threw her wretched body across the room. She hit her head upon the ground with a sickening thud, and in my horror I forgot myself and almost approached her. Then I noticed the briefest flicker in her eye. That thing had survived, and it controlled her inanimate body like a puppet. It wanted to fool me into admitting defeat, but I would not be so easily gulled, and I repeatedly put my wingtip to its host's head to prove my point.

  At once, my own parasite writhed and snarled. My ears filled with the sound of its sickening movements, and I could feel it pulsating beneath my chest. Yellow mucus seeped from my skin, my mouth, my eyes, and I wiped it away as I ran to the door in an effort to escape.

  Everywhere I looked, the infected were advancing, full of the knowledge that I had rebelled. Their voices were garbled, speaking in some nonsense language whose familiarity teased the back of my mind until the words began to make sense. With mounting horror I tried desperately to keep from listening, to keep from learning their secrets. If I failed, I knew I would go mad. I ran from the infected strangers that surrounded me, mopping the drying mucus from my face. I ran until nausea began to overwhelm me, until I had no choice but to collapse to my knees.

  My body was coated in a cold film of sweat as I knelt, panting, and I clenched my stomach while it spasmed and churned. Then, before I realized it, I was vomiting upon the ground a yellowed mixture of food and blood. Only then did the crowds that had gathered disperse in fear, as though they could not bear to see someone wresting free of his parasite's control. I laughed at their retreat, but uttered no more than a few chuckles before my throat sealed shut around the sounds. Something had lodged inside of it. I tried to cough the blockage free, but my throat would not open. I started to panic and scratched the concrete sidewalk as stars appeared in the periphery of my vision. The world slowed until time crawled and darkness crept over my sight like a heavy tarpaulin. My limbs failed me and I crashed headfirst into the ground. As my consciousness slipped away the muscles of my throat began to relax, and something wet and noxious inched its way forward.

  I awoke into darkness sometime later, and for a moment I wondered if I were alive at all. My throat burned but I could breathe, and my face and hands were covered in a dark sticky substance I could not wipe away, nor could I spit the sour taste that filled my mouth. I pulled myself from the pool of liquid I lay within and heard a noise not unlike that of a foot being pulled from wet muck. With some difficulty I stood.

  On the street before me stretched a long smear of foul liquid that reflected the streetlamps overhead. At its end, about ten feet from where I stood, lay what looked like a pile of soiled rags, but when I staggered towards it I realized it was something more.

  The creature was about a foot and a half long. It looked like a large gastropod — its short stalks moving asynchronously while its body remained still. The thing was streaked with blood like a newborn child and its desiccated and unfed form was covered in thick yellow mucus. The smell emanating from it was nauseating and overpowering.

  My legs shook beneath me, unable to keep me upright for long, yet I managed to find enough balance on them to land my heel squarely upon the creature's head. Its thin membranous skin popped open under my weight, and some of the grue inside splashed my trouser leg. But I was free. I was finally free.

  I looked at the dark deserted street and smelled the sweet odor of rotting garbage and of automobiles as they raced by, but I did not smell the creature's foul stench any longer. In the distance was the sound of sirens but little else, and I smiled as I turned my face to the cool autumn breeze. I walked on unsteady legs toward my home feeling the stares of so many hidden tainted eyes. Was there envy in them? The buried hopes of those too ignorant, too weak to free themselves from their own anchors? I could not be sure, but the idea warmed me. I coughed, then pulled my coat closer to my chest. I had a long way left to go, but it was night, and I would be making the journey alone.

  BEHIND GLASS

  HAWKSLEY WISHED THERE were some way to survive without money. All he wanted to do was retreat from the world, but it was impossible. Life had made it so and there was no sense in fighting against it. He had submitted to its power four years earlier and used the Economics degree his father had forced on him to find a meager data-entry job. It barely paid his bills, but it didn't require concentration, a commodity of which Hawksley had run quite short.

  But the job was gone, the company consumed by a foreign-owned business Hawksley knew very little about. Everyone from the old location was offered a position at the new, but Hawksley didn’t know anyone who had planned on accepting. Some said the move to the factory district was too far to travel. Others felt the new company too low on the corporate ladder and thought their careers might wither and die if tucked away amid hidden lake-front streets indefinitely.

  There buildings stood indistinguishable from one another, large greyish brown structures that seemed to bend towards Hawksley as he travelled past and engulf him in shadow. No matter how quickly the bus moved, he could not shake the feeling that the mountains of brick were descending towards him.

  The address, at the end of a cul-de-sac off Commissioner’s Street, shared little with those crumbling ancient behemoths. Its small rectangular shape was formed of muddy brick and stood only a single story high. It did, however, appear to stretch back an eternity, its true length obscured by the copses of trees that sprang from neighboring lots. He walke
d along the path towards the structure and could smell the lake just beyond the canopy; it filled the air with a claustrophobic dampness, and Hawksley found it clung to his hands like a fishy film.

  It took some force before the front doors swung open, and once he was inside Hawksley’s vision required a few moments to adjust to what he saw. A vacant reception desk sat between him and a long straight corridor of frosted glass offices. He could see their occupants moving within, lit like strange shadow puppets against the translucent walls. Hawksley heard little beyond the scratching of pens on paper and the clacking of computer terminal keys; there was no one speaking, no telephones ringing or radios playing, only the electric buzz of the fluorescent lamps above. The silence filled him with a strange reticence to knock on a door and ask for instruction. It would be better if he spoke to as few people as possible.

  Past the bright offices, the walls of the building became dark and grey, absorbing the surrounding light. The clip of his shoes echoed through the hushed corridors as he searched for the office of the manager. Then he noticed one sound was augmented by another, a reverberation from somewhere deep inside the building, like something being pounded. It made Hawksley feel alone, isolated, and the volume only increased as he made his way further into the building. Its rhythm continuously shifted and, without realizing it, Hawksley was drawn into following the sound’s strange communication.

  He turned a corner and found himself in another passage containing a pair of windowless doors separated by only a few feet. From behind one the sound was resonating — pounding machinery that became louder as it slowed — and it drilled into his brain. Hawksley reached for the rattling handle and then froze when he felt thick stubby fingers squeezing his shoulder.

  Immediately, the pounding in his ears halted.