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

by Mark McLaughlin

  —Lucy

  Dear Irene,

  It’s decided: we want you to live with us. Now is the time to be among friends. You can play the piano, too—Agatha will buy you one. It’s been so long since I’ve heard you play. Agatha says you can have her old room. She’s moving into the new section once it’s completed. Of course, you can bring Pruneface—just be sure to keep him away from the cats.

  We’d so like to have you here, Irene. Bernice can’t wait to meet you. She says she feels like she already knows you. I do talk about you quite a bit. Did I mention? Bernice doesn’t need her bag any more. I guess it’s all a matter of diet. Celeste’s all better, too.

  It’ll be so much fun, Irene. You and me and everyone. We can talk and play with our cats and look at Agatha’s old books. They have the strangest pictures! You can have your own cat mask, too, like the rest of us. We’ll do the mask dance and sing the mask song and Mr. Sartok will cook up meals to make us feel so much better.

  Agatha says that when Christmas rolls around and the students come back, she’s going to try and summon Azu again. And this time it’s going to work because we’ll all be helping.

  You know what, Irene? Agatha doesn’t have a cat! And after all her talk about how pets keep you young. Of course, she’s so busy looking after us—maybe she doesn’t have time for a pet. Or maybe she’s just holding out for something special.

  Agatha wants you to join us, Irene. It’s really the best thing. Agatha says that if you don’t, she and Mr. Sartok are going to drive on down in that big black car and get you.

  —Lucy

  DIAGNOSIS AND TREATMENT OF OCULAR PARASITISM AND ASSOCIATED MENTAL DISORDERS

  “There is no need to fear,” Dr. Seldag said. “I’ve read about this problem in Professor Puthmoor’s text. Puthmoor is the last word in parasitism of the eye.”

  Pretty Mrs. Thetron nibbled nervously at a corner of her delicate lace hankerchief. “Then there is hope?”

  “Of course. Your father will be fine.” The physician patted the bald head of the emaciated man seated on the examining table. “As I see it, old Beric must have been napping under a thromba tree. Lich-crows favor thromba trees for their nests. Lich-crows are simply acrawl with the most vile organisms. The worst of these is the eyeworm. A little nap…an upturned face, directly beneath an infested nest…a slight breeze… Most unfortunate. But do not worry, Mrs. Thetron. There is no need to alarm yourself. With the Puthmoor text to guide me, we’ll have these eyeworms licked in no time.”

  In a shadowed corner of the room sat a silent woman, visible only to Dr. Seldag. Her black hair hung down over her face in a solid curtain. Only her mouth and chin could be seen. Her lips moved, but no sound came forth. Her long, twisted fingernails wove manic patterns in the air. The doctor chose to ignore her.

  Old Beric gasped. “Am I dead? Get these squiggly-wigglies out of my head. I must be dead ’cause I’ve got worms in me. Am I dead?”

  Mrs. Thetron helped Beric down from the table and wrapped her thin arms around him. “Can we take my father to the Professor?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. Professor Puthmoor was killed in his Lundyn laboratory during the Great Meteor Rain.” Dr. Seldag said. “In fact, the Museum of Abnatural Wonders on Yath Street has a few of the Lundyn meteorites on display. The largest found was the size of a baby’s fist… But what does size matter? Eyeworms are small and just look at all the trouble they cause.”

  Mrs. Thetron bit her lower lip. “The Great Meteor Rain was almost a century ago. Surely his book is outdated by now.”

  “Professor Puthmoor was something of a recluse. Little is known of the gentleman. But I can assure you of this: Puthmoor was a genius, well ahead of his time. His text is clearly the work of a visionary. That is why I am so proud of my copy of his book—a rare first edition. My bookseller informed me that it came from the library of one of the Professor’s pupils…a Dr. Paglio Ferni of Romae.” The physician turned to gaze out the window. The sky was cloudless: excellent. A throat-hawk squealed in the distance. “Bring old Beric back to this office this evening. Treatment can only be administered at night.”

  “I hate to go out when it’s late,” Mrs. Thetron said. “The city is so full of bad sorts. Terrible people who pinch. Robbers with whips. Killers who bite their victims to death. Can’t you do anything for him now?”

  Dr. Seldag sighed wearily. Why did this woman doubt him? Was she not impressed with his tastefully decorated office? His delightful paperweights from foreign lands? His many black-framed certificates and articles? These documents attested to his unique alignment with a variety of mind/corpus research facilities: the Zhikago Institute of Psychotic Decay; the Lobe Dome in Zengapoor; even the CerebroSpinal Enlightenment Center (on the campus of the University of Maggakuzzets). “Moonlight makes the eyeworms glow, Mrs. Thetron. Surely you’ve noticed…? You know what they say: a glowing eyeworm is an easily detected eyeworm. I cannot remove what I cannot see.”

  With a nod and a mumbled apology, Mrs. Thetron led Beric to the door. There the old man paused, his pimento-red eyes rolling. “Is this a tomb, little death-lady? Am I dead? Am I dead?”

  Dr. Seldag gave them a fond smile and a little goodbye wave. He was a tall, pink-cheeked man with an angular face and not an ounce, not a speck of excess fat adhering to any of his ropy muscles. His silver-grey hair coiled down from his scalp in thick, serpentine locks. He was handsome, yes—but dedicated to his work, and so, never gave any thought to his looks. Looks were only useful for attracting lovers, and he had no need for that sort of thing. He had his work to fill any emptiness that might crop up in his existence.

  He saw many other patients that afternoon. Mrs. Aggi required consultation regarding her dreams: horrid, nauseating visions of insects and genitalia. She spent most of her visit crying, tears streaming, spattering all over his nice rose-colored rug. Dr. Seldag wondered if the woman had some sort of obscure lymph-related condition. It was his opinion that folks with bothersome lymph glands had difficulty controlling their various bodily humors. After that, sickly Mr. Pnik’s miserable sinuses needed draining. Otherwise, the infection could spread, even to the brain. The man clearly had a poorly formed skull, with inner structures that tended to pool their viscous secretions until they became septic. Then Lystir Norl, the effete young actor, was having sharp pains and tingly feelings in his right ear again. Lystir’s bossy mother used to tug on that ear, back when he was a small child. Yet there seemed to be nothing visibly wrong with the ear. But what about the fellow’s mind…? Fortunately, the little pink and orange pills always proved effective. Pills to soothe frazzled nerves. Still, Dr. Seldag worried about the poor lad, since the condition refused to go away.

  The silent woman with hair in her face stuck her tongue out at Dr. Seldag as he examined Lystir’s ear for the seventeenth time that year. The doctor knew that the woman was only a symptom of stress-related madness. His was a difficult field: just last year, in a fit of pique, Dr. Ungila hollowed out a man’s head and filled it with some sort of creamy dessert (brandied pudding or poppy puree—reports varied).

  Dr. Seldag was determined not to give in. He would not react in any physical way: to do so would be granting the status of reality to this illusion. To hell with his colleagues and their insipid adherence to tradition! In his heart, he knew that to confront a fear was to beckon for madness with an eager, wiggling finger.

  Every now and then, the silent woman would attempt to fondle him; hers was the insubstantial touch of a phantom’s shadow. And so he ignored her. Ignored her. Ignored her. No matter what. That was the prudent thing to do.

  The silent woman mouthed obscenities at him. Her too-long black bangs brushed against her upper lip.

  “My good Mr. Norl, I believe you need more pink and orange pills,” the physician said. “Take two whenever the pain spasms or tingling sensations strike.” He smiled knowingly. �
��Or simply…whenever.”

  A single tear rolled down Lystir’s white cheek. He took a tissue from a box on a side table. “Thank you, Doctor. Without you…why, I can’t imagine where I’d be without you. You are my salvation.”

  Soon Lystir Norl was gone, and Dr. Seldag locked himself up in his office. The silent woman with hair in her face was infuriated with his indifference. Slicing deep into her abdomen with her twisted fingernails, she pulled forth steamy red lengths of herself and wrapped them around his throat—

  But as always, he felt the mere ghost of a touch, and did nothing in response. Eventually the silent woman tucked herself back together. Dr. Seldag then prepared for Beric’s visit. When he was finished, he took a blue pill, then a green pill, then a long nap. He dreamed that winged scorpions were tearing out his father’s hair.

  The doorbell rang and rang. The doctor bid farewell to the scorpions (and to bald, sad, silly dream-daddy) and returned to the waking world. He unlocked the door to let in Mrs. Thetron and her father.

  “Am I dead?” shouted old Beric. “These grave wigglies are so itchy but I sure can’t scratch inside my eyes.”

  Mrs. Thetron cleared her throat. “I’ve always meant to ask…why don’t you have anyone to help you? A busy man like you! No assistant? Why?”

  The silent woman with hair in her face smiled in the corner.

  “I work alone,” Dr. Seldag said as he assisted Beric up onto the examination table. “My patients surely prefer the sincere, confidential one-to-one attention.” The physician pulled a row of metal bars up from the sides of the examination table. He strapped Beric’s arms and shoulders in place (it would not do for the old man to squirm at a crucial moment). He propped open Beric’s eyelids with petite but sturdy frameworks of rubber-coated wire. He then reached up and pulled a slender silver chain.

  Off went the office lighting. Moonglow streamed in through the windows. Wormglow streamed out of Beric’s eyes.

  Dr. Seldag opened a metal cabinet by the window. He lit a small candle and placed it on a tray of syringes with curved needles. The tray also held a bottle of pink fluid, an eyedropper, and a textbook—Diagnosis and Treatment of Ocular Parasitism and Associated Mental Disorders by A. L. Puthmoor. The physician set the tray by Beric’s side and applied several drops of the pink fluid to each of the patient’s eyes.

  “This contains a soothing local anesthetic,” the doctor said, holding the bottle up for Mrs. Thetron to see. “Old Beric won’t feel a thing.”

  Dr. Seldag began to remove the worms one by one, suctioning them out of the old man’s eyes with the syringes. He consulted the textbook by the light of the candle. Every now and then he would inject pink fluid into each of Beric’s eyes.

  “Squishy, squirmy worms,” the old man whispered dreamily. “Graveyard glowworms in the moonlight. Am I dead? Are you embalming me? Are you shooting embalming fluid into my eyes? Sure wouldn’t want my eyes to rot. Am I a mummy? A squirmy, wormy mummy?”

  The silent woman with hair in her face sat by the old man’s side. She snaked a hand into the gash in her belly and began to uncoil herself.

  Dr. Seldag reached for a fresh syringe and continued with his work. The silent woman began to dangle her damp yardage in front of his face.

  “Leave me be,” the doctor murmured. “I’m working. Can’t you see that? Maybe you should brush the hair out of your eyes.” He pulled back the plunger of the syringe and drew the last glowing worm from Beric’s right eye. He then realized with a start that for the first time, he had spoken to the silent woman. She grinned hugely as she backed into her shadowed corner.

  “Are you all right, doctor?” Mrs. Thetron said. “Who were you talking to?”

  Dr. Seldag smiled as he turned the lights back on. “I was merely experiencing a stress symptom. Please, don’t mind me. Your Beric is free of eyeworms, Mrs. Thetron. I shall bandage his eyes and then you may take him home. Be sure to keep him away from thromba trees.”

  As he finished taping gauze over the old man’s eyes, Dr. Seldag noticed that Mrs. Thetron was looking at the textbook. She pulled a small nail file from a pocket and began to pick at the inside cover.

  “My book! What are you doing?” cried the physician with dismay.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I just happened to notice…” She held the book out to him. “The very first page was stuck. See? Somebody must have been eating and reading the book at the same time.”

  Dr. Seldag took the book from her hands. There was a brown smudge on the inside cover, to which the page had adhered. A chocolate thumbprint from long ago.

  The doctor’s pulse quickened. The newly discovered page held a handwritten message in light-green pencil.

  To Paglio, my naughty monkey—

  Bon-bons for your belly, a book for your brain, and me for the rest of you.

  —Agmylia

  Agmylia?

  Had A.L. Puthmoor been a woman? Apparently so. And a clever, zesty one at that. Amorous, too. “Me for the rest of you.” Such a lusty phrase. Lusty. Lust. The doctor rolled the word around in his brain. Lust. It rhymed with must. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Professor Puthmoor must have lust. A giggle, tiny but not quite soundless, danced on his tongue and squeezed its way past his lips.

  He looked up in time to see Mrs. Thetron and Beric leaving the room, hand in hand.

  Then the doctor felt a tap on the shoulder.

  He turned to face—

  Was this the silent woman with hair in her face? Evidently. Her hair was pushed back now, to reveal one staring, pimento-red eye. A dark, pitted mass was embedded in her other eye-socket: a meteorite, just a tad smaller than a baby’s fist.

  The woman moved her lips. This time, words came out. “I thank you for granting me my reality. Now let us see just how real I can be.” She put a hand to the rock lodged in her face. Her red eye blazed with triumph. “A doctor is what I need. Yes, indeed. I know that your caseload is rather heavy. But still, won’t you please…take me on?”

  * * * *

  One week passed.

  Two weeks.

  Three.

  Pleased with the progress of his patients, Dr. Seldag decided it was time to experiment with group sessions.

  Lystir Norl wiped at his eyes. “The horrible squiggly ickies scare me so. Will Mommy be at my funeral?”

  Mr. Pnik blew his nose. “Bury me deep. Deep in the dark. Down with the worms in the deep dark dirt.”

  “Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle. It’s so funny. It’s just so funny. It’s just so very funny.” Mrs. Aggi said, rubbing drool from her lips with the back of her hand. Lystir gave her the last tissue from the box on the side table.

  Dr. Seldag opened his metal cabinet. On the bottom shelf rested a lich-crow nest which held three open tissue boxes.

  Groups sessions brought out so many emotions! The physician grinned hugely as he reached down. His long, twisted fingernails speared yet another infested box for his loving, sharing patients.

  THOUSANDSKINS

  Once there was a goblin king whose wife had shining golden fur and eyes like silver coins. The other goblin women, whose furs were either lead-grey or calico, were quite jealous of the beautiful queen. For that reason, one of the ladies-in-waiting—a spindly beast with bald patches—hid a sprig of parsley in the queen’s mold pie. Since goblins cannot abide good fresh food, the queen fell ill. On her deathbed, the queen made her husband promise this: that if he should marry again, he would choose as his bride one with eyes as silvery and fur as golden as her own.

  This the king promised.

  The king and queen had three female kittens at that time, so young that their eyes were still closed. The queen kissed her babes and bundled more warm spiderwebs around their limbs (for they had yet to grow fur). She then died with a small smile on her lips. The king instructed a nursemaid
to take away the mewling babes, for the very sight of them saddened him.

  For many years, the king’s advisors searched for a she-goblin with silver eyes and golden fur. But alas, one could not be found. In his study, the brooding king busied himself with the affairs of his land.

  In the servant’s wing of the palace, the nursemaid raised the royal kittens to adulthood. One grew into a fine calico lass; another became the darling of the court, slim and grey with sweet red eyes. As for the third: she was an enigma. She wore a hooded robe and studied in the cobwebbed, neglected palace library. She spent so much time among the old books that her fur was always smeared with thick dust. She ate her meals alone and talked to no one. All in the goblin court called her Princess Shush.

  One night (but of course, it is always night in the goblin-land), the king glimpsed a silvery glint down a darkened hallway. He went down the hall and found Princess Shush standing by a window.

  “There is something that gleams of silver in this hall,” said the king. “Can you show me what it is?”

  Princess Shush threw back her hood, and the king saw that her eyes were like two silver coins. He saw too that her fur, under the dark dust, was as bright as gold.

  He took her hand and led her to the chamber of his foremost advisor, a lean old thing with two teeth in his head. The king informed the elder goblin that he planned to marry the Princess. The old goblin smiled and nodded, for goblins have no laws against such things. Goblins have but one law: In matters of enjoyment, thou shalt not hesitate.

  Ah, but Princess Shush enjoyed nothing. She read the big dusty books in the library only because the fine, faint lettering strained her eyes. She did not want the goblin-land to enjoy a royal wedding festival with feasts of lovely mold and rot. The princess penned this contract and gave it to the old advisor: