Hideous Faces, Beautiful Skulls: Tales of Horror and the Bizarre

by Mark McLaughlin

  Mr. Pennywhistle: He was very handsome and very rich. I captured him with elegance and attitude. He was also very work-oriented, and spent a great deal of time at the office. We had servants, so I was able to concentrate on my own interests, and of course magic. He had no idea: he was wrapped up in meetings and reports and mergers and cocktail parties. I was his beautiful trophy wife, and he never knew that his trophy could work wonders. He had a terrible heart attack, and as he sat by his hospital window (he refused to stay in bed) dying, I told him everything about myself. He said, “Darling, don’t be silly,” and then he was gone. So I brought him back and kept him alive for a few seconds, just to show him a thing or two. That took some effort, but it was worth it.

  Mr. Nelstrom: He was a very serious fellow. He was a chef, and he taught me a great deal about the art of food preparation. One begins with the finest ingredients, and then works from there. Timing is also incredibly important. That flavor peak won’t last forever! But as the years passed, my Mr. Nelstrom began to miss a few dinners, and my eyes and ears in the community told me he was seeing a crude young thing with an enormous bosom and tiny brain. Can you imagine how that made me feel? My dining room gourmet was a bedroom gourmand. Unthinkable. So I told him in a very stern voice to go away. But, there was a problem much like the episode with Mr. Finlay. He walked away—and never stopped walking. Again, I must have tapped into some sad inner defect of his. Eventually I divorced him. I caught up with him on a road in Italy—he was just a scrawny thing, walking, always walking—and trotted by his side, holding the papers as he signed them.

  Those were my first three husbands, and I will admit, I had a small advantage since I am a person of magic. But really, every person—every living creature—has some degree of magic. They just have to learn to find it. To embrace it. And of course, to use it.

  * * * *

  Four hours later, Mrs. Vultaine came back into the dining room. She smoked a clove cigarette as she waited for her party to resume consciousness. When at last the guests returned to their chairs, she instructed five of her groggy servants to fetch the main course.

  “I had to prepare the entree myself,” she said, “and I don’t mind saying, it took a bit of doing.”

  Vexina leaned against a sideboard. She put a shaking hand to a raw, bloody hole below her collarbone. “What have you done to us?”

  “Oh, that,” the old woman said. “A little something to remember me by.”

  The maid pressed a finger tentatively against the wound. “Oh! I think it has healed up already.” She took a deep breath and said to her employer, “I’m frightened.”

  The widow laughed. “Fright is simply a symptom of ignorance. Note that I am not calling you ‘stupid.’ Rather, I am bringing to your attention the fact that there is much you do not know. You are young and inexperienced. You must learn to trust. Certainly you can trust me. I have no reason to destroy you. I am too jaded to do it for amusement! Therefore, if I do anything to or for you, it will probably help you. Do you see?”

  Vexina nodded slowly. “Yes, I think I do. I’m still scared, though.” Her eyebrows raised a little. “But please, don’t worry about me. The fear will go away eventually.”

  Mrs. Vultaine smiled warmly. “You are trying. Genuinely trying. I like that.” She then addressed her guests. “Next is the main course. The specialty of the house! After that, you may all take whatever of my gewgaws and trinkets you like. Load them in your cars. Call for trucks. Fight over them if you must.”

  “I must say, this is all very…” Silhouetta searched for a word. “…impromptu!”

  “For all of you, yes. But I have been planning this evening for quite some time,” the widow said. “I suppose I do have a weakness for springing surprises on others. And why not? I’ve had enough sprung on me over the years, and they’ve all made me a better person. And speaking of surprises: there is an utterly enormous safe in the basement. You will find the combination etched onto the handles of the dessert forks. For my treasure, dear ones, is your dessert. But first…”

  She clapped her hands lightly, and the servants brought out several covered trays, which they set at intervals on the tables.

  “Bon appetit,” whispered Mrs. Vultaine.

  The servants raised the tray lids, revealing large, steaming chunks of roasted meat. Vexina and Osmette began slicing at the savory mounds with curved knives.

  “As for my most cherished possession…” The widow studied her guests. “I still don’t know who should have it.”

  5.

  From The Fine Art of Living:

  So how did I catch my last two husbands—the magical ones?

  Mr. Wong: A very handsome, exotic man—half Chinese, one-fourth French, and the last fourth…! His grandmother on his mother’s side was a circus reptile woman. He had wonderfully sculpted features, and a slight greenish cast to his skin. He was always hungry, so I captured him by making him wonderful things to eat. I will admit, most of the recipes were Mr. Nelstrom’s. Mr. Wong preferred raw meat, so I had to make a few adjustments.

  Mr. Wong showed me how to make animals understand human words, and also, he taught me to slow-dance. That second skill isn’t really magical, but no one had ever shown me how to do that before. It was fun. Sexy. It made me feel young.

  But in time, I tired of Mr. Wong. He became more reptilian with the years. He grew bigger—not fatter, just proportionally larger. He was still good-looking, but huge, and cold to the touch. Eventually, all he wanted to do was eat and bask. So we separated. I hear he now has a tail.

  Mr. Vultaine: Ah yes, Osbo! He was the only one who ever caught me! I met Osbo Vultaine at a film festival. He saw I was a woman of power and he simply had to have me. He was a fantastic man, and very handsome and virile for a fellow of three-hundred. When he showed up at my door with the Book of Thoth, I knew that he was the one for me. We traveled to lands which most people think are mythical, and met people who had no business being alive. Did you know there is a valley in Canada where everyone has yellow eyes, and a plateau in Argentina where the women have four breasts? They say technology is making the world smaller—don’t you believe it! It’s still big enough to have plenty of hidey-holes. Osbo and I had many exhilarating adventures. But best of all, we could talk, share concerns, figure things out—and laugh! We had seventeen marvelous years together. And then the Night-Birds came and carried him away.

  I tell people I’m a widow, but I’m still not sure. Someday, I will go to where the Night-Birds roost and see what I can discover. The thing is, that’s not the sort of place from which one can return. But for Osbo Vultaine, I would do anything. Even the impossible.

  * * * *

  A murmur arose among the guests. Suddenly Moyan stood up. “I have killed to prove my love for you! Your cherished possession should be mine.”

  Silhouetta cleared her throat. “What about me? At least I say ‘thank you’ when I receive a gift.”

  Other guests voiced their reasons, their desires, their concerns. The widow simply nodded. So much greed. So many social climbers. But still, she had to pick one, and soon.

  “Maybe I…” murmured a small voice.

  Mrs. Vultaine looked about the room. It took her a moment to realize it was Vexina who had spoken. “You? Tell me more, puppy.”

  The sad-eyed servant slid a slice of meat onto the nearest plate. “I’ve worked so hard for you. Even though you scare me to death.”

  “True.” The widow rose from her chair. “You are a survivor, and survivors should be rewarded.”

  Slender metallic wings ripped through the back of Mrs. Vultaine’s silk blouse. She tore away her clothes, slowly, delighting in the sharp rrrrrrip of the fabric. She stood naked before her guests, revealing golden arms and legs, golden breasts and hips. The display from the grand hall was now her body, new and improved. Of her own flesh, onl
y her head, shoulders and hands remained.

  She picked up a rounded lump of meat from a tray and offered it to Vexina. “Take it, my dear. Take my heart.”

  As always, the servant did as she was told.

  Mrs. Vultaine stared into her servant’s eyes. “A trite gift, but the right gift. You are a sad, sickly creature. You shall have this delicacy and it shall nourish you.” She brought her lips close to the servant’s ear. “There is a manuscript in my nightstand drawer. It contains all the dreams and secrets of my life. Read it, learn from it, and then burn it.”

  She then spun round to face the table. “As for the rest of you…my useless old body is yours.” She gestured toward the meat. “You must forgive me for foisting that little nap upon you earlier, but in meal preparation, timing is everything. Try the roast and I think you will agree: one cannot accuse me of being tasteless.”

  The widow’s metal wings flapped slowly, once, twice. Then they began to beat in earnest, speeding to a golden blur. Protective golden sheaths slid over the hands, and shields rose up from her back, covering the shoulders.

  “I’m coming, Osbo,” she said.

  More curved shields sprang up, sliding together as a sleek helmet around her head.

  Erika Finlay Pennywhistle Nelstrom Wong Vultaine soared out of the dining room, into the great hall, and up through the open skylight.

  Vexina sat on the floor, chomping on her gift as though it were an apple. But yes, oh yes, it was sweeter by far. She removed the pins from her coiffure, shook out her long, lustrous hair and laughed and laughed and laughed.

  THE SLIMY ONES

  Michael Jarvis blinked his eyes once, twice, then opened them wide and rolled them around in their sockets. His new contacts were killing him—but anything was better than wearing those horrible glasses. The lenses were so thick they made him look all fishy-eyed.

  His mother would be pleased that he was wearing contacts. She had always hated his glasses. “I bet they cut those lenses off the bottoms of pop bottles. You look like Aunt Edna with her big googly glasses. How are you ever going to get married? What kind of woman would want a guy with big googly glasses? I just want you to be happy.” She used to say that all the time, and it was true. She wanted him to be happy. Unfortunately, he’d never found the right young lady to help bring about that happiness.

  He’d been lonely after his mother passed away, if you can call getting hit by a bus “passing away.” She’d been such a caring woman—and very frank, too, always one to speak her mind. Well, he now had his investigations to help him not feel so lonely. And he still had the family house.

  People had told him to sell it, saying a single man didn’t need such a big place. But he couldn’t do a thing like that: the new owners might not take care of it. He kept it looking nice, every little thing in place, just the way Mother would have wanted.

  Eventually his eyes felt better. He looked at the clock—time to turn on the radio. Soon, it would time to call-in.

  Thank God for talk radio. The George Flicker Show was the perfect forum for talking to the River City, letting the people know about The Slimy Ones. He realized that people thought he was being a pest, a crackpot, but he didn’t care. The people—the world—had to know.

  After the show’s opening music, George went into his usual spiel about every little thing that was ticking him off these days. Then it was call-in time.

  Michael already had the first six numbers dialed—he still used Mother’s old landline. He hit the last number.

  A moment later, he was on the air.

  “Hey, it’s our old friend Fishboy,” George said. “How ya doin’, Fishboy?”

  “Please don’t call me that. My name is Michael. I have some more information for your listeners, George. About the Slimy Ones.”

  “Ah, yes. The Slimy Ones.” A note of amusement crept into George’s voice. “A little background information for our first-time listeners. Our friend Fishboy—Michael, I mean—has been collecting information on a race of giant catfish people living at the bottom of the Mississippi. He has described some photos he has on file: slimy handprints on the sides of the riverboat casinos, and some webbed footprints around the Prescott Bridge area. What else, Michael?”

  “Well, let’s see…” Michael thought for a moment. “I’ve mentioned that the Slimy Ones have been in touch with alien visitors, whose ships have left crop-circles in certain fields in the area. The visits of these aliens coincide with the Mississippi’s highest flood levels. I’ve also told you about the time I glimpsed one of the Slimy Ones skulking outside the River City Public Library—and now, I think I know why. Tonight I will tell you why a horrible catfish humanoid wanted to get into the library.”

  “They’ve got DVDs there. Maybe he wanted to check out Jaws,” George said as the movie’s theme music blared forth: da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum!

  Michael bit his thick lower lip. George must have prepared that sound-bite in advance for the next update on the catfish people. Michael didn’t like being set up—but still, he had to let the world know about the menace lurking and growing in the muddy depths of the Mississippi.

  “Lately, I’ve been doing some research on some of the families that founded River City.” Michael shuffled through his notes—photocopies of old documents and pages from diaries. “There was a family back then called the Thraggs. Hecuba Thragg and her daughters, Rose and Lavinia, came to this country from England because they were on the run from the authorities.”

  “Hey, now wait a minute,” George said. “There are some Thraggs on my mother’s side of the family. You won’t be pulling old George’s leg now, would you?”

  Michael’s eyes itched, and he started blinking again. “Certainly not. I didn’t know that about you. I’m part Thragg, too. That’s why I have some of these old diaries. When my mother died, I started looking through all her old boxes in the attic, and there they were. I think she got them when my grandmother died. So you’re part Thragg? We must be related.”

  “Great. I’m related to Fishboy. I mean Michael. So tell me more about these three Thragg babes.”

  “Well, they were wanted for witchcraft. They worshipped the ancient sea-god Dagon. So when they came to this country, they eventually settled in River City and—picked up where they left off.”

  “But River City’s nowhere near any ocean. Did their sea-god swim upstream to meet them?”

  “He didn’t have to. He holds power over catfish and all bottom-feeding creatures. They are his evil spawn.”

  “Yeah, evil—and pretty darned tasty. Have you ever been to Mississippi Mama’s Catfish House? I hear they put shredded ginger on—”

  “As I was saying,” Michael continued, undaunted. “The Thraggs started a coven of Dagon worshippers here in River City, and during the river’s flood stages, they would walk into the water to commune with the catfish. It’s all here in the diaries. And after a while, some of the worshippers began to take on the physical characteristics of their river brethren.”

  “Those are the catfish people. Right?” George played that snip of movie music again.

  “Right. Their lifespan is now measured by centuries. They hope to eventually rule the land dwellers—but in order to do that, they will need The Book of Old Wisdoms, which used to belong to Letitia Thragg. That copy—the only one in the world—is under lock and key at the River City Public Library. And they don’t even know it.”

  “Wait a minute.…” George actually sounded interested now. “How can they have a book locked up there and not even know it?”

  “Because it’s a very small book—no bigger than the palm of a child’s hand and as thick as a pencil. There are less than one hundred pages. Letitia hid the book inside the thick leather binding of a much larger book—but I don’t know which one. All I know is that the larger book had been donated to the l
ibrary, along with a lot of other old volumes.”

  “And what would happen if these catfish people ever got their webbed hands on this book?”

  “Ultimately, they’d be able to change our world into the perfect environment for themselves and their alien friends. Unfortunately, that sort of swampy hellhole wouldn’t make much of a home for humanity. We’d all be reduced to slaves or livestock.”

  “So what do these aliens look like, anyway?” George asked.

  “They can look like who- or whatever they want, so long as it helps them to meet their purpose. In old times, they used to take on the appearance of Indians to fool people of European descent. And vice versa. They always appeared as a stranger to whoever they met, in case their ‘disguise’ was a bit off.”

  “There you have it, River City. We’re all doomed to be eaten by the very catfish we so love to charbroil. We’ll be back after this commercial break. Michael, please stay on the line, we’ll take up where we left off.”

  On Michael’s radio, a snappy commercial jingle for a muffler shop started up.

  “Ya still there?” George said on the phone.

  “Sure I am.” There was a moment of awkward silence. Michael looked over at a small table covered with little figurines that his mother had bought, years ago. Fragile little statues of barefoot farmboys and freckle-faced girls with pigtails. He smiled. “You probably think I’m a big nutball, huh?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” George said. “I’ve seen some weird stuff myself. And when you think about it, we live on a pretty weird planet. I mean, take TV for example. We’ve all got little boxes that show what’s going on all over the world. Cavemen would have thought that was pretty freaky.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

  Suddenly there was a loud rattling, crunching sound—it seemed to come from the back porch. Michael couldn’t help but think, that side of his house faced the river. “I’ve got to get off the line, George. Something’s going on outside.”