* * * *
That evening, Peter dreamed of tall, ungainly creatures that lumbered across a midnight desert. The moon was veiled in clouds. The creatures wore shining capes and tall headdresses. Their forelimbs swung forward awkwardly. Their huge guts shook with each cumbersome step.
The clouds parted and the figures were bathed in moonlight. Cows they were, strutting impossibly on their hindlegs. Their eyes were golden and unblinking. Dreary low voices bubbled in Peter’s mind: Die, stupid boy. You are too fragile to live without pain. Kill yourself. Your dead body can nourish grass. Die, little fool.
With a shrill cry Peter awoke, drenched in sweat in a narrow bed. His sleeping quarters at the Institute were completely utilitarian. The room was dimly lit by a small blue bulb over the door. The furnishings consisted of a white plastic chair and table, an empty wooden bookcase, and the wooden bed with its patternless blue quilt. The security glass in the single round window was more than an inch thick.
The boy sat up in bed. From this angle, he was able to see out of the window. In the yard outside, the cow-woman was crawling naked on her hands and knees. The thick glass distorted her image, making her appear grotesquely bloated. She bowed her head and bit into the grass. Peter slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming.
This horrid grazing couldn’t be part of the old woman’s therapy—she enjoyed it too much. Peter guessed that this was the doctor’s doing.
The night wore on and Mrs. Pronka continued to feed. Peter found himself wondering how the doctor would make the cow-woman scream.
* * * *
Dr. Matapathamos flipped through pages of notes, lost in thought. Suddenly he looked up. “Your father, Peter. Was he a well-endowed gentleman?”
“How in the world would I know? Why do you bring up such idiotic questions?” On the couch, Peter tore a jagged bit of nail off his thumb.
“Did you sleep well last night, my boy?” Dr. Matapathamos coughed lightly…perhaps to cover a small chuckle.
Peter said nothing. Instead, he got up from the couch and took The Trauma of Meat from its shelf. He started to skim through the pages.
“Put that book back where you found it,” the psychologist said, alarmed.
A picture in the book caught Peter’s eye. It depicted an obese man with a thick, piggish nose squatting, naked and terrified, in a meat locker. A half-dozen hog carcasses hung on hooks around him.
“About your Uncle Viktor…” The doctor’s tone was peevish.
“What about him?” Peter said. “Do you want to throw him in a meat locker? Just to hear him scream?” He slapped the book shut. “Count his livestock. Maybe there’s an extra bull in the cowyard.”
“You think that your uncle has transmogrified into a bull? We are delving deep. I see a thread at the door of the labyrinth, leading inward. But even so, your uncle is not a Minotaur. My people found him last night, a few hours after our session. Put the book away, Peter. It’s time to see Uncle Viktor.”
The boy did as he was told.
Dr. Matapathamos stood up and led his patient out of the office. Muti left her rosewood desk to join them.
The three walked down a long corridor, past a number of black metal doors. From beyond these doors, Peter heard hysterical laughter, mindless babbling, and screams: high screams, hoarse screams, screams of horror and screams of delight.
The doctor stopped in front of one of the doors. By the side of the knob was a small panel covered with buttons, each a different color. The doctor pressed three buttons—red, blue, then purple. He turned the knob as he pressed a green button and the door opened.
Peter was amazed. The room was huge, more than eighty feet across. In the center was a pit surrounded by a wire-mesh fence. On the nearest post of the fence was another panel of colored buttons. He stepped up to the fence and looked down.
Twenty feet below, muddy sod was piled on the floor of the pit. The sod looked fresh—the grass was succulently green. Something white and puffy rested amidst the chunks of earth; its pallor reminded Peter of a nightcrawler. But it was far too large to be any sort of worm.
It was Uncle Viktor, fast asleep.
Dr. Matapathamos and Muti joined Peter at the fence. “He was found in the pasture, burrowed under the turf,” the doctor said. “As you can see, we’ve tried our best to accommodate him.”
Uncle Viktor opened his eyes. He looked up with a wide, stupid smile.
The psychologist removed his spectacles and, taking a tissue from a packet in his pocket, wiped at the lenses. “Ordinarily, I would need more time to make inquiries. In this case, however, I believe I have enough information to venture an opinion. It would appear that your uncle wishes to meld with the grass. To become grass.”
One of the lenses popped out of his spectacles and broke on the floor. Muti knelt by the doctor’s side to pick up the bits of glass.
“I don’t understand,” Peter said. He heard Muti inhale sharply and saw that she’d cut her thumb on the glass.
“Muti!” The doctor slipped his spectacles into a coat pocket and helped his secretary to her feet. “Are you all right, my dear?”
Muti uttered a few strange syllables: “Ugh ha k’ma.” She held pieces of the lens in her uninjured hand. Peter realized that he had never heard her speak a word of English. He noticed a tattoo on her palm, but could not make out the pattern under the broken glass.
“Oh, that’s not bad,” the doctor said, examining Muti’s thumb. “A mere scratch. We’ll put a bandage on that in minute. For now, this will do.” The doctor took a fresh tissue from his pocket and wrapped it around Muti’s thumb. He took the broken glass from her and threw it in a nearby waste can.
He then turned to Peter. “Your uncle has developed a truly unique mania. No doubt he yearns for the cows to devour him so he can be as one with his deities.” The doctor touched four buttons on the fence’s panel—green, purple, blue, then red. “I have been presented with a marvelous opportunity, Peter. An opportunity to affect four cures at once.”
A hidden door opened up in the wall of the pit. Mrs. Pronka crept through the opening, sniffing loudly. She saw the sod and bellowed with delight.
“All her talk of needing a sacrifice!” the psychologist said. “When it comes down to it, she simply won’t go through with it. Her self-horror will be too great. You’ll see.”
Peter turned to ask the doctor what he meant. The boy saw that the doctor was in fact talking to Muti.
“You and your mother shall scream your way to normalcy, my love. We can then put this entire nightmare behind us and get on with our lives.” The doctor leaned toward to kiss his secretary’s forehead.
Below, the cow-woman pounced on Uncle Viktor and tore at the old man’s face and shoulders with her teeth.
“Stop her!” Peter cried. “She’s going to kill him!”
“She’ll stop, she’ll stop,” the doctor said nervously, squinting into the pit. “Viktor will be screaming very soon and so will Muti and her mother and you too, Peter. You’ll all be screaming and screaming and very soon you shall all be well.”
The cow-woman gnawed at Uncle Viktor’s head, tearing up chunks of hairy scalp. The old man’s smile never faltered.
Muti started to laugh. Peter found himself fascinated by the beads of sweat covering the doctor’s face.
“I realize that this may seem extreme,” the doctor whined, “but believe me, Peter, soon each and every one of you shall be screaming. Everyone shall be screaming as the sublime healing power of cathartolepsy takes control. The sexual and emotional tensions of a traumatic life cannot be contained without sporadic bouts of verbalized release. My methods are infallible. Soon you shall all be screaming. Soon. Soon.”
The cow-woman beat Viktor’s head against the wall of the pit. Most of the old man’s features had been bit
ten away.
Muti raised her hands, palms forward. The bloody tissue around her thumb came loose and fluttered to the floor. On each palm was tattooed a golden cow’s-eye—one was smeared with red from her cut. She chanted in a throaty tone: “Ul’ka r’hama horti. Ul’ka r’hama gont. Um’na Hathor. Um’na Hathor. Ul’ka r’hama Hathor.”
The cow-woman’s skull swelled and lengthened into a ponderous horned structure. Her chest and belly expanded rapidly. Her arms and legs grew thicker, bonier. More limbs sprouted from her bulging, mottled abdomen.
Peter took in the events around him with a surprising degree of serenity. True, it did seem odd that the blood-streaked eye on Muti’s palm was now rolling and shedding pink tears, trying to wash out the irritant. And yes, it was disconcerting to note that Mrs. Pronka now resembled a cross between a prize Holstein and a giant tarantula. Still, he was able to accept the chaos around him because he knew just what to do.
These were matters best left to a professional. He would simply let the doctor sort it all out.
Peter backed slowly out of the room. He waved goodbye to Dr. Matapathamos, who was screaming so violently that ribbons of blood and spittle flew from his lips.
REGARDING THE SITUATION ON CLOVE STREET A REPORT AND AN ADDENDUM
REPORT 6C.:
Clove Street is lined, not with clove trees, but with catalpa trees. But then, cloves only grow in the tropics, and this street is not known for its warmth. The weather here is capricious and yet rarely pleasant. Swirls of frost can be found on windows on early summer mornings. A clear, sunny day can bring hailstones as large as cats’ heads. The lawns here suffer heinously: most are dotted with brown spots and dead patches.
And what of the green house with the yellow door? The neighbors are not sure what to think. The old woman who lives in the green house is named Letitia Clover. Mrs. Clover claims to be a widow, yet no one in the community can remember ever meeting or even seeing a picture of her late husband.
Mr. Tremayne, who has lived next door to Mrs. Clover for thirty-six years, insists that she always has appeared to be in her late seventies. He adds that she always has lived alone; always has owned numerous cats; and always has worn the same copper-rimmed spectacles (which always have been specked with dandruff or, to be kind, perhaps just dust).
Mrs. Lamb, who lives on the other side of the green house, wonders if perhaps the street had been named after some member of Mrs. Clover’s family, or even the old woman herself. Could it be that the “r” had been dropped or misplaced with time? Or maybe some manner of city planner had smeared the ink after filling out a work order. One never knows. Inquiries shall be made and a report shall be filed.
The white trumpet flowers of the catalpa trees fill the air with a scent not unlike vanilla, but sweeter. In time the fragrant blossoms drop, and turn to pale brown slime on the cracked sidewalks.
Why does Mrs. Clover pay the neighborhood children to scoop up the slime—with silver spoons!—and deposit the noxious ooze in little pine boxes? She pays the children with silver dollars (she has been heard to say that paper money is a ludicrous concept). What does the old woman want…what does she do…with those wet, rancid petals?
Mrs. Clover’s exceptionally large cats roam the Clove Street area freely. They all wear little silver chains about their throats. Her cats smell of catalpa petals.
Here now is the situation: many of the residents of Clove Street are disturbed by various low hums and throbbings and utterances that seem to issue from Mrs. Clover’s green house.
The hums could be caused by a motor of some sort.
The throbbings are more often felt than heard—felt through the soles of one’s feet.
The utterances are limited to this muted, unintelligible exchange: 1.) An exclamation in the voice of an elderly male; and 2.) A shout, presumably in response, from Mrs. Clover.
Passersby on the sidewalk are frequently startled witless by these baffling sounds/sensations, which can be discerned within a ten-yard radius of the Clover house. Only Mr. Tremayne and Mrs. Lamb have sufficient reason to file a complaint with local authorities, and they dare not—for one must not alienate one’s nearest and undearest neighbor. Suburban tranquility is a sacred ideal; plus, Mrs. Clover has a strange, almost feral way of staring down others through her dusty lenses. At first, Mr. Tremayne and Mrs. Lamb were reluctant to share their experiences with our fact-finding agent, Community Member X. Luckily, both of Mrs. Clover’s next-door neighbors have a fondness for white wine.
It would seem that Mrs. Clover (who, one must remember, claims to be a widow) and an unknown senior gentleman are working together on some project or process that involves a machine. Neighbors state that Mrs. Clover keeps her drapes drawn at all times. Mr. Tremayne believes she has never had a job…or at least, an occupation outside of her home. Furthermore, Mr. Tremayne’s niece works at the local department store, and she claims that Mrs. Clover always pays for her purchases—even upscale major appliances—in silver. As for the shocking account given by a local paperboy: that shall be saved for the last, as an addendum, since one cannot be sure if the youth should be considered a reliable source.
Listed below are the prevalent theories, and their variations, regarding the situation on Clove Street:
A.) Mrs. Clover and her undead/deformed/insane husband are manufacturing toxins with which to poison neighborhood housewives/children/dogs.
B.) Mrs. Clover and an unidentified elderly alchemist are brewing catalpa-based aphrodisiacs with which to seduce postal workers/meter readers/door-to-door salespeople into complex sex rituals. Once the trysting is completed, the seduced individuals (through the application of some form of dark magick) are transmogrified into large cats.
C.) Mrs. Clover is an alien/Martian invader, working with a certain long-thought-dead scientist to build a death-ray and/or legion of murderous automatons. Individuals from Mrs. Clover’s world subsist on decayed catalpa blossoms.
If theory A. is correct, one could assume that Mrs. Clover’s activities are being financed by a foreign power. If B. is indeed the answer, the alchemist certainly might be using his paranormal pseudoscience to generate not gold, but less conspicuous silver to fill the widow’s coffers. And in the case of C., Mrs. Clover’s alien comrades would be the so very generous providers of her heretofore inexplicable wealth.
As Pi, with all of its eccentricities and little-known dangers, is to mathematics, so Mrs. Clover is to the security of Clove Street and ultimately, our sector. The noises and sensations issuing from her residence—the low hums, the throbbings, the muffled utterances—continue to vex and confound the populace.
Mystery must be monitored. Surveillance shall be maintained through Community Member X. More reports shall be filed.
In the meantime, all involved should exercise caution.
One should regard the green house on Clove Street with suspicion and certainly, dread. One should make discreet hand signs to avert the Evil Eye when Mrs. Clover turns her filth-speckled lenses in one’s direction. One should pray to the stars while walking widdershins to curry cosmic favor. And above all, one should advise one’s children not to fall into the practice of collecting dank, dead catalpa flowers with silver spoons.
Addendum 1A
To ensure exactitude, the account given by a local paperboy (name withheld) has been condensed and itemized into a comprehensive sequence of events. Transcripts of the paperboy’s verbal account are available upon request to agents with 3H.a. security clearance.
At this time, the reliability of this account is in doubt: several months before the alleged Mrs. Clover occurrence, the youth had experienced a severe concussion as the result of a motorbike accident. The boy’s doctor has stated that the paperboy had recovered completely from the accident—but can even the most adroit of physicians be truly sure in such matters?
The sequence of event
s detailed in the paperboy’s account is as follows:
• Paperboy knocked on front door of Clover residence.
• Paperboy heard low hums and felt ground-throbbings.
• Mrs. Clover answered front door.
• Paperboy requested delinquent funds.
• Mrs. Clover withdrew into residence to procure funds.
• Paperboy required use of restroom.
• Paperboy noticed front door ajar.
• Paperboy opened front door to call for Mrs. Clover.
• Mrs. Clover did not respond.
• Paperboy entered Clover residence.
• Paperboy searched for restroom.
• Paperboy passed through halls filled with large cats.
• Paperboy passed stacks of small pine boxes.
• Paperboy found closed pine door from behind which issued loud, low hum.
• Paperboy opened pine door.
• Paperboy discovered glowing void filled with outsized clockwork of silver.
• Paperboy noticed pale brown grease lubricating clockwork.
• Paperboy speculated that low hum might be caused by multiple hidden motors, turning the countless gears.
• Paperboy could not discern source of throbbing.
• Paperboy noticed giant elderly man chained to clockwork.
• Paperboy noticed gaping incision in belly of elderly man.
• Paperboy noticed clockwork parts (silver axles, gears, springs) and gleaming coinage steadily pouring from incision.
• Paperboy noticed numerous large cats floating through abyss.
• Paperboy closed pine door.
• Paperboy retraced path through Clover residence.
• Paperboy met Mrs. Clover in hallway.
• Mrs. Clover offered payment to paperboy.
Hideous Faces, Beautiful Skulls: Tales of Horror and the Bizarre Page 13
