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

by Mark McLaughlin

  • Paperboy accepted twenty silver dollars.

  • Mrs. Clover led paperboy to front door.

  • Paperboy heard scream of Please (elderly male voice).

  • Mrs. Clover laughed.

  • Mrs. Clover cried Never.

  • Paperboy exited Clover residence.

  • Mrs. Clover closed front door.

  DROOL TOOL: THE MELTDOWN MIX

  What? You’ve never been to the Black Box?

  It’s delicious, my dear. Black walls, black carpeting and a black marble dance floor. I’d be there tonight if it weren’t for—Well, they’re going to be closed for a week or so.

  This club is interesting enough, but the music? Absolutely dreadful. They don’t even play the Psychonauts.

  You’ve never heard of them? Do you live in a cave? On a farm? I have all their CDs: Monkey Boy, Slurp It Up, Robot with a Whip… Surely you’ve heard their latest single, Drool Tool?

  You have some lipstick on your teeth. Right there. You’re quite pretty. You shouldn’t bleach your hair, though. You should dye it black, like mine. Then we could pass for sisters.

  Yes, I know I’m a bit older than you. Your older sister. Older but wiser.

  The lead singer for the Psychonauts is Tarot Mandrago—an absolute god. I met him a few months ago. I’m an account executive at Raw Hits magazine and—

  Hmm? Didn’t hear you.

  Oh, that just means I sell ad space. The magazine threw a huge party and that’s where I met Tarot, with his long black hair and big black eyes. He rambled on and on about Haitian music, aborigine music, even dream music. I had no idea anyone in a dance band could be so erudite. Unfortunately he was standing to my left and I’m practically deaf in that ear. The other one’s a bit weak, too. If the party got too loud I couldn’t catch everything he said.

  Soon Tarot’s backup singers came to whisk him away and I was whisked right along. We all piled into a stretch limo. We drove for the longest time before we pulled up in front of a gorgeous mansion with stone gryphons on each side of the door. And inside—!

  The walls were draped with blood-red velvet curtains. There was sound equipment everywhere. Some sleepy young things were lounging about on huge pillows in the main hall. An absolute Adonis wearing nothing but a leather mask was leading a monkey on a leash.

  Tarot explained that the mansion belonged to an elderly millionairess who desperately needed a hobby. He pointed to a metal booth hanging by gold chains about twenty feet above the floor. The old girl was in there, watching. The masked Adonis whistled and a rope ladder shot down from the booth. He and his monkey shimmied right up.

  The Psychonauts began to rehearse, so I went over to the pillow people. They were smoking the most obnoxious substance: ground-up African beetles mixed with dried seaweed. I sat with them, smoking and talking to a strange young thing from Cat’s Ass, Illinois. I asked her what was on the agenda and she gave me an odd little smile.

  “Tarot will be treating us to his latest masterpiece,” Miss Smalltown said. “Put these in when the time comes.” So saying, she gave me a pair of foam-rubber earplugs. I asked: why would I want to wear earplugs while listening to music? She just tapped my nose and said, “Trust me.”

  Tarot then announced that the group would be playing their forthcoming release. What was I to do? I wanted to hear it, but Smalltown had been terribly specific. I decided to put in one earplug. When in doubt, compromise.

  As I put in my one earplug, I saw that everyone else was putting in two, including the group. Then they began to play. A few weeks later I heard the same song on the radio—Drool Tool. But they weren’t playing the radio mix that night. They were playing the dance version: the Meltdown Mix.

  Of course it was wonderful—what little I could hear of it. I shouted to Smalltown: Can you hear anything? She answered by holding her thumb and forefinger a quarter-inch apart.

  Suddenly I felt a small splash on my head. I looked up and saw that something was dripping from the booth. It was like the coffee stupid housewives make on old sitcoms: all gooey and brown. And the smell! A clot of the stuff fell right on Smalltown’s face. The group stopped playing, and Tarot went to a control panel and lowered the booth to the ground.

  Inside, they found three intertwined bodies. One was extremely small. They were in sad shape, my dear. In fact, they hardly had any shape at all.

  The skin and muscles had dissolved into a sort of chunky brown syrup. The organs looked like rotten fruit. The bones had liquified. Adonis’ spine was little more than a soggy pink stick.

  The groupies and the band members were a bit shaken, as was I. Tarot was utterly ecstatic! The look in his eyes…like a crow admiring a nice bit of roadkill.

  Excuse me, my dear. I have a quick errand to run.

  * * * *

  Now, what were you saying?

  The bodies? Well, it’s all rather complicated. You see, Tarot just loves to experiment. With music, drugs, reality—you name it. He later explained that particular experiment to me.

  The Meltdown Mix contains dream-rhythms that send a powerful subliminal message to the brain. This message lulls the brain into a waking dream-state. In this blissful dream, the body’s cellular structure relaxes—to a truly alarming degree.

  But you’re safe if you can’t hear the entire sound spectrum of the message. That’s why they’d put in earplugs—to block out the higher frequencies. The old girl and her boyfriend hadn’t been told to do so: one never informs the guinea pigs. As it turned out, I didn’t need my earplug. Tarot said my hearing problem was all the protection I needed.

  The radio mix is doing quite nicely, but the Meltdown Mix won’t make the charts. Only two copies were made. Tarot kept one CD for further experimentation. The other was snatched up while no one was looking.

  I can’t say that I envy the cleaning ladies at the Black Box. And my dear, I certainly don’t envy you. Your mascara is running…or is it your face? The DJ is playing the Meltdown Mix right now. I gave him my copy just a minute ago.

  There’s a certain satisfaction in being the prettiest girl in the room, don’t you think?

  PRINCE OF THE DARK GREEN SEA

  A fisherman and his wife lived by the sea in a shack of rotted boards and driftwood. Each morning the fisherman cast his net into the dark green waters, and each afternoon his wife carried his catch to the village to sell. Each night, she gutted a fish and boiled it in a copper pot for their dinner. Work and sun and salt air toughened the skin and grizzled the hair of the fisherman and his wife. What time they spent together was used to collect grass and sticks for their fire. When they spoke, they spoke of tides and wind and petty village intrigues. So they lived for many years.

  One morning, the fisherman caught a most frightening fish. The vile thing had black scales and filthy needle teeth. He was about to slap the monster against a boulder when he noticed that its eyes were brown and sorrowful and strangely beautiful. The fisherman put the fish back in the water, saying, “Swim away, my sad little friend.”

  When he returned to the shack, he told his wife about his catch. The old woman smoked a pipeful of dried blue seaweed as she listened.

  “Surely I am married to a fool,” she said. “That was a magic fish, and you should have made a wish.”

  “What would I have wished for?” the fisherman asked.

  “Such a stupid question. Do you want to live in this worthless hovel forever?” His wife blew a cloud of smoke in his face. “Go back and ask the fish for a fine warm cottage.”

  “I should like to sleep in such a cottage.” With this, the fisherman left the shack. He returned to the boulder and called out, “Swim back, my sad little friend.”

  The water rippled and the black-scaled creature appeared. The man gazed into its beautiful, melancholy eyes. He then noticed that the fish
’s mouth had changed. It now had a beautiful mouth, too. The lips were red and the teeth were even and white.

  “My wife told me to come and wish for a fine warm cottage.” The fisherman held out his hands. “She is a hard worker, my wife. No one deserves happiness more.”

  “Go home, catcher of fish,” said the monster in a low murmur of a voice. “The Prince of the Dark Green Sea is indebted to you. I know what you want and I know what you need. Your wife has her cottage.”

  The fisherman returned home and found a cottage of pink stone where the shack had been. Around the cottage grew bushes abundant with fragrant pink roses. He lifted the gold latch on the cherrywood door and went inside. His wife smiled at him from the rocking chair by the fireplace. He believed the woman to be content, and returned the smile.

  But in a week’s time, she again blew pipe-smoke in his eyes. “You gave that miserly fish back his life and how does he repay you? With a paltry cottage. Go now: I desire to be a queen in a castle.”

  The fisherman nodded wearily and returned to the boulder. “Swim back, my sad little friend,” he said.

  Again the fish poked its head out of the water. The creature’s black scales had turned to beautiful milk-white skin.

  “I thank you for the cottage, good fish,” the man said. “But my wife must be a queen in a castle. She is a hard worker, my wife. No one deserves happiness more.”

  “The Prince of the Dark Green Sea is indebted to you.” The fish blinked its sorrowful brown eyes. “Your wife has what she wants.”

  Upon his return, the fisherman saw, instead of the cottage, a castle of silver bricks. The trees and shrubs surrounding the castle were adroitly trimmed to resemble fabulous beasts: harpies, satyrs, rampant griffins and more. A lady-in-waiting led him to his wife’s chamber, where the old woman sat before a mirror of polished silver. She ignored him as she styled her stringy grey hair around a glorious silver diadem.

  The fisherman’s wife drank royal jelly liqueur and pomegranate wine from the castle’s mazelike cellars. She ate roast lamb and delicate pastries from the well-stocked larders. She slept on cushions filled with the down of baby swans. And by the end of a month, she considered these luxuries woefully lacking.

  “Truly I must become an empress, in a palace befitting my rank,” she said. “Take this wish to the magic fish. I am sure that he would think nothing of such a small request.”

  The fisherman went to the boulder and called for the fish. The Prince of the Dark Green Sea now had long black hair and the face of a beautiful young man.

  The old man stared in admiration at the fine features of the Prince. He then made his request. The creature said, “I am indebted to you. Your wife has what she wants. Go now, catcher of fish.”

  The fisherman walked home. The castle was now an exquisite palace of gold. About the grounds were scattered towering golden statues of the fisherman’s wife, all more than flattering. In the sky, guards garbed in golden armor rode roaring bat-winged chimeras.

  The fisherman found his wife seated on a golden throne. Around her thin shoulders was draped a robe of spun gold; on her head was a filigreed golden crown, graced with cunningly crafted amber plumes. On plush divans lounged smirking pleasure-boys who regarded the aged fisherman with disdain.

  In her callused palm, the fisherman’s wife held a box carved from an enormous yellow sapphire. She opened the box and dipped a wee golden spoon into the crystalline powder within. With a languorous moan, she snuffed the sparkling powder up a nostril.

  “Ah, the life of an empress…” The woman frowned hugely. “So very boring.”

  “But—” The fisherman’s eyes opened wide. “I’ve only just returned from the shore. I thought you would be happy for at least a year.”

  “A year? A year of this utter tedium?” She dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “You must be mad.”

  A young handmaiden entered the throne room carrying a tray of beauty ointments. She began to massage a mixture of honey and lily oil on the old woman’s sere cheekbones.

  “There’s no need for that,” said the fisherman’s wife with a bitter laugh. “You might as well rub your fancy balm onto a chunk of granite.”

  The handmaiden studied the face of the empress. “If you like, I can brew a clever skin-softening unguent, made from the fetuses of rare albino alpacas.”

  The old woman pushed the handmaiden away. “The pretty fool has given me a marvelous idea,” she cried to her husband. “There is certainly no need for her silly creams. Inform the magic fish that I wish to have control over time. Then I shall turn back the clock and make myself young again.” She glanced toward her pleasure-boys and simpered.

  The fisherman could not believe his ears. “Control over time?”

  “Yes—and space, too. I should like to make my palace larger.” She looked up into the far shadows of the throne room’s ceiling. “This miserable closet is so close, I can scarcely breathe. Now do as I say, before I summon the guards and have you tossed into an oubliette. I am aging needlessly even as we speak.”

  The fisherman hurried out of the palace—but gradually his steps slowed to a crawl, for he was reluctant to ask the magic fish for yet another wish so soon. It was twilight by the time he reached the boulder. “Swim back, my sad little friend,” he said.

  This time, the Prince of the Dark Green Sea walked out of the water. The creature now had a human body, well-formed and desirable. The fisherman was so enthralled that for a moment, he forgot why he had returned. But at last he remembered his errand. “Forgive me, good fish, but my wife desires even more. She must have control over time and space.”

  “I am indebted to you—indeed I am. I know what you want and I know what you need.” The beautiful young man stepped forward and placed his cool palms on the fisherman’s chest. “Your wife is now back in the wretched shack. And you shall come with me, catcher of fish. You are a hard worker and no one deserves happiness more.”

  So saying, the Prince of the Dark Green Sea pulled the fisherman beneath the waves.

  SOMETHING IS COMING

  In the dream, he somehow knew: something is coming.

  Something strange. Something wrong.

  Something filled with ageless malice.

  Something is coming.

  It emerged from the darkest corner of the universe in a vessel crafted of black metal, racing at a speed that made the passage of light seem as sluggish as sap oozing from a broken tree limb. He had no idea how he knew these things. He just did.

  Closer the horror came, closer, ever closer.

  Suddenly the dream was ripped to shreds by noise, bright noise—

  He awoke and swatted the ringing thing off the nightstand. What was it? Why was it making so much noise?

  In the bathroom, he switched on the light, but the bulb only made an odd sizzle. Sitting on the toilet, he realized that he needed something, something, but what was it? What?

  Desperate and confused, he used a washcloth instead of toilet paper.

  He wandered naked through the house. Each time he came to a window, he wondered why the sky looked so sickly and strange. He put his hand on a window in the living room. The glass had turned yellow and it felt soft. Damp yet crinkly. He checked a light bulb in one of his lamps. The bulb was yellowed and slightly misshapen. Could glass go bad, like milk? He tried to remember what glass was made of…

  But then, the concept, the very thought of glass seemed to dim as he considered it. Glass? What was glass? It was a thing, yes, but what sort of thing? A thing you can look through. A look-through-it thing.

  It occurred to him that perhaps there was something wrong with his…his… The word eluded him, but he found himself touching the side of his head. Yes, the thing inside his head, whatever that was called. He decided he should call someone. Find someone who could help. A
moment later, he looked at the phone and wondered what that thing was.

  He moved to the flat thing in the front hall and concentrated: he knew that this was a very important thing. He reached out and slapped his hands against it. He started to panic. He fidgeted with the round shiny thing sticking out of it until—the door? Yes, that was it! The door! The door thing! The thing! Until the thing opened, and he walked outside.

  The millions of skinny green things under his feet were all limp and watery. And the flat green things high up in the tall dark things hung down all slimy. As far as he could see, every green thing was dead and wet and icky.

  He tried to gather his thoughts. Something had made the things you can look through into soft, yellow things. Something had made all the green things into rotten, oozy things. And worse of all, something had made him not know what things were or what they did. Everything was wrong. Every … thing. A thing is a thing is a thing.

  He looked down at the things he stood on, those two pink things, each ending in five stubby little things. They sure were funny-looking—but how did they work? When he tried to move them, he fell down. The long things on each side of him flopped uselessly. He breathed heavily and muttered, “Thing—thing thing—something is coming—thing thing—”

  Suddenly, he saw a pair of huge, brown blubbery things floating above him.

  The brown things looked silly. They resembled the messy, lumpy things that came out of the back of barking things. But these brown things were big, much bigger than he was, and they had many of those wet, round things that you see with.

  Both of the brown things held long shiny things that went buzzzzzzzz when they pointed them at things. The brown things squealed as they drew toward him.

  He suddenly realized that these things were to blame, these horrible, disgusting THINGS, these, these—

  For just a moment, sheer terror cleared his foggy mind, and he was able to recall one last succinct word: