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

by Mark McLaughlin

  Quinn grabbed a reel of film off a lower platform of the cart. She installed the movie on the projector and spent a few minutes rolling the reel around, looking closely at the frames until it had reached a particular spot. Finally she set up a screen on the other side of the room.

  “All set,” she said, picking up a pen from her coffee table. She turned down the lights and switched on the projector.

  The scene that popped up before us depicted decayed, blood-spattered corpses chasing a screaming couple through a field. She’d mentioned that she collected old movies—this had to be one of them. An old horror movie with zombies in it.

  “Attention, Daniel!” Quinn called toward the black box in the corner of her living room.

  “Yes?” the computer said, helpful as always.

  “Look at the screen,” she said. “Evidence of the living dead going after humans. That’s just what’s happening here. That’s what those creatures are—walking corpses. Zombies. Look, damn you! Documented evidence! Just look!”

  The couple on the screen raced down a country road—only to find themselves stumbling into a cemetery filled with the glassy-eyed horrors.

  “I am unfamiliar with this data source,” Daniel asked in his high, excited voice. “What is this I am watching?”

  “Archived news footage,” she lied. Quite convincingly, too. “The information was suppressed by the government so that people wouldn’t go into a panic. I have the last remaining bit of evidence. Look, Daniel! That woman is crawling out of a grave. The dead aren’t supposed to come back to life. You know that!”

  “You’d better do something about all this right now,” Remson said. He’d obviously picked up on Quinn’s plan and was proving himself to be a fine actor. “Do something right now before more people are turned into zombies.”

  “Zombies,” the computer repeated. “I have no data files regarding that subject.”

  Quinn stood directly between Daniel’s box and the projector, and I saw her quickly jab the pen into the workings of the projector. The image on the screen froze as the film began to bunch up inside the machine. She turned it off. “Damn!” she said. “This stupid old clunker isn’t working right.” Quinn had thought through her plan well. It wouldn’t do for Daniel to see too much of the movie. One bad special effect and he’d realize that the evidence was questionable.

  Quinn turned toward Daniel’s box. “I think you’ve seen enough. You saw them, right? The zombies? You saw how scared the living people were, right? They were scared for their lives—just like us!”

  For a moment, Daniel was silent.

  At last he said, “This situation requires further investigation. In the meantime, I will seal off all rooms and hallways containing the zombies.” He paused, as if to give the matter more thought, and then added, “I will vent liquid nitrogen into those sectors to cryogenically freeze them. If there are any unaffected humans in with them, they can be sorted out and revived later. I will contact my board of directors on Earth and tell them that we need additional assistance.”

  “Great idea, Daniel,” I said. “You do that.”

  “See ya later, alligator,” he said.

  Now you know the real story behind Attack of the Space Zombies.

  At the end of the movie, I was named the captain of the Pangyricon. Sorry, but that didn’t happen. The writers did get one fact right: Quinn and Remson fell in love, got married and moved to a Martian colony.

  I went back to Earth and made some big bucks with that movie studio, like I mentioned. Eventually I opened a pet store with the money.

  The Daniel persona was removed from the Pangyricon and according to Remson, is now being used on a hydroponics farm on Mars. Daniel now makes daily recommendations regarding the nurturing of okra, asparagus and tomato plants.

  Some of my old coworkers drop by my pet store when they vacation on Earth. They tell me that the big decisions on the space station are now being made by actual human beings.

  Imagine that.

  THE LAST POETRY NIGHT AT THE SATURNALIA COFFEE HOUSE

  I used to go down to the Saturnalia Coffee House every Friday night. To listen to poetry. Occasionally, to read my own poetry. To watch the pretty young things and the not-so-pretty old things mill about, guzzling wine coolers and flavored bottled water. Men and women alike flirted with me. On a scale of 1 to 10, my looks alone would rank me at 6, maybe 7 (I have dark hair and eyes and have been called “ruggedly handsome”). Fortunately, I’m somewhat glib, so my conversation brought my rating up to a firm 8.

  The Saturnalia was actually the living room of a run-down mansion, or perhaps I should say mansionette, on top of a wooded hill. The exterior was decked out with fancy trim, but the place was fairly small: two floors (one with four rooms, the other with five) and, enclosed within the gambrel roof, an attic.

  The place was owned by Nose: he had a real name (Ambrose, I think) but we all called him Nose because, well, he had a large, thick, ruddy nose with huge pores and little hairs all over it. It looked like a fuzzy baby sponge. He smelled like ointment, too…a hospital sort of smell. We were all so rude—we actually called him Nose to his face. He didn’t seem to mind. He only smiled and asked if we wanted more raspberry spritzer.

  I do miss the poetry readings. Now Nose is dead and the Saturnalia is now nothing more than a weed-choked patch of charred boards and bricks.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  The poetry nights at the Saturnalia were started by my friend Meg, a petite, frizzy-haired bird of a woman who just loved to read her short stories and long, long poems aloud. Her writings usually concerned such topics as her various lovers; her pet snakes, cats, and tarantulas; and her love of the moon and all things nocturnal. Some of Meg’s poetry had been published as a chapbook, Lullabies for Snake Babies. She had started the readings to promote her chapbook and to give would-be bohemians a fun place to hang out. Every Friday there were two guest poets (friends of Meg, usually) and an open reading. Halfway through the night’s festivities, Nose passed a floppy red beret around for donations. “To help pay for the beer,” he would say, even though the big, ice-packed tin tub of beverages by the fireplace never included beer.

  One night, a newcomer at the Saturnalia caught my eye. He looked to be in his early twenties. He was the palest man I had ever seen. His skin was as white as milk—so white that it was almost blue. His eyes were light green and his eyebrows were practically translucent. His buzz-cut hair glowed with the faintest tinge of cornsilk yellow. His teeth were very small and white and square. His nose was small and flat, like a cat’s. His height was about average and he was very muscular. I forget what he was wearing that night, but in the weeks to come, I came to realize that he always wore subdued earth tones.

  I watched Pale-Boy out of the corner of my eye. When he laughed, his light-pink tongue touched the tips of his front teeth. He squinted when he smiled, too. At one point, he lit up a cigarette. Several of the poetry night regulars informed him he should smoke outside, so out he went, and I followed.

  When we were outside, I tapped him on the shoulder. “Can I borrow a cigarette?” I said.

  “You gonna give it back?” he said as he handed one to me.

  “Well, no…“

  “Then you’re not borrowing it.” He flicked his beige plastic lighter and lit me up. “Sorry. I’m not usually such a smart-ass.”

  He maintained almost constant eye contact with me as he talked. A good sign.

  “How do you like the poetry?” I asked, trying not to cough. He smoked unfiltered cigarettes.

  He shrugged and shook his head simultaneously. “I can’t really judge. I’m like most writers: I think my stuff’s great and everyone else is pumping out shit.”

  We talked for about half an hour. In that time, I found out that his name was Chad and he worked in a record st
ore. He lived alone in a three-room apartment above a Chinese restaurant. He wrote poetry about vampires, the end of the world, death, loneliness, etc., etc. I was a little disappointed that he didn’t ask anything about me.

  While we were talking, Chad noticed a little path going off into the trees behind the mansionette. “Let’s see where that goes,” he said.

  I followed Pale-Boy into the woods. I liked the back of his neck: the short hair there formed a light-yellow V pointing down his muscular back. Soon the woods grew too dark for me to see the golden V. Chad was only a light glow of a silhouette, a human aura. He stopped and turned around.

  “Here we are,” he said, placing his hand on my crotch. “Yep. Here we are.” He said that over and over as he opened my pants, as he knelt before me, as he massaged my erection. “Here we are. Here we are.” Then he took me into his mouth and could say no more for five, ten, fifteen utterly perfect minutes.

  Of course, I returned the favor. I’d had sex with four other men before Chad, and I’d considered all of them generously endowed. But compared to Chad, they were all baby carrot farmers. His erection seemed too huge to be human. For a moment, I was a bit taken aback. But only a moment.

  When we returned to the reading, Meg was giving the last poem of the night, as was her way. Chad crossed the room to get a spritzer from the tin tub. I stood by the door. Nose walked up to me and gave me a wink.

  “I see you’ve met my boy,” he said.

  Panic-striken, I said nothing.

  “Yep, he finally decided to pay the old man’s funny farm a visit.” He squinted as he smiled. “Oh, I know it seems impossible, an old dogface like me having a little Greek god Apollo for a boy, but it’s true.” He leaned closer. “You two were gone a pretty long time. Just wanted you to know I don’t mind. Nope, not at all. Young people are supposed to have fun.”

  He winked again, then turned and wandered off. His ointmenty, chemical reek hung in the air.

  Chad returned to my side and handed me a wine cooler. “I saw you talking to my dad. What did he say?”

  “Nothing, really. He guessed what we’d been doing, but he didn’t mind.”

  “I didn’t think that he would.” He sighed with obvious irritation, which surprised me.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Oh, it’s just that now he’s going to be really, really nice to you. Like you’re his new kid or something. And that’ll probably scare you off.” He had a sad, puppyish look in his eyes. “Right?”

  “Don’t worry. Nose is okay,” I said. I studied his Chad’s fine pale features. “I guess you take after your mother.”

  Chad nodded. “Yep. I like men.”

  * * * *

  During the next few weeks, Chad and I met at movies, restaurants, our apartments, and the poetry readings, where we’d sit next to each other. Everyone knew we were a couple, and it was fun: nobody minded, and since Chad was so very handsome, it made me seem that much more attractive for having snagged him. Nose always made a point of handing me a wine-cooler and chatting with me. When the night grew boring, Chad and I would slip out for a cigarette and a walk in the woods.

  Chad started bringing his poems for the open reading segment of the evening. He once gave me a copy of one of his poems, printed in dark red pencil:

  Hungry For You

  I want to chew on you eat you with

  whispering teeth and make you my own

  I want to envelop you like a venus

  flytrap folding its cold elegant flesh

  in upon your tasty smoothness

  and so I shall you are mine all mine

  you are my delight my love my

  sweet surprise my sustenance and

  now you are a part of

  me

  The audience didn’t care for his morbid tidbits, and really, neither did I. His poetry did have a certain darkly erotic quality, but frankly, it didn’t reflect upon our relationship. I’ve always had a bit of an ego. I wanted him to write poems about my subtle charms…my wit! my broodingly handsome good looks! my finesse as a lover! But then, one doesn’t always get what one wants.

  Once, while Chad was talking with some poet friends, Meg took his place by my side. “He’s gorgeous,” she said. “No offense to Nose, but it’s hard to believe they share any chromosomes.”

  “What do you think of his poetry?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s all right,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m not really big on weird scary stuff. What’s going on over there?” She nodded toward the other side of the room. Nose had joined the group of poets and even though I couldn’t hear what was being said above the noise of the room, I could tell that Nose and Chad were arguing. Chad rushed out of the room and his father followed, shouting and waving his arms.

  Meg beckoned to one of the poets—a sandy-haired haiku enthusiast in his late teens named Richard—and he rushed over to us.

  “What was that all about?” Meg said.

  “Nose doesn’t want Chad reading his poetry here any more.” The boy said, grinning. It was obvious he enjoyed being in-the-know.

  “But why?” I said.

  “I don’t know!” Richard’s eyes grew round. “He just kept saying, ‘You know better,’ and giving Chad this really poisonous look. I can’t believe Chad is being censored by his own Dad.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Meg said. “I mean, people read about all kinds of stuff here. Acid trips, menstruation, kinky sex…you name it. Just last week Daniel read that really long thing about elephants fucking.”

  “Dads are so lame.” Richard nodded knowingly. “My own dad thinks that haiku isn’t really poetry because it doesn’t rhyme.”

  He blathered on and on, but I was no longer listening. Somewhere in the house, I could hear, faintly, Nose shouting.

  Eventually Chad returned to his seat. His eyes were red and puffy from crying.

  “Is everything okay?” I whispered to him.

  He shrugged. “I can’t talk about it. It’s a family thing.”

  It occurred to me then that I’d never seen Mrs. Nose. “Can I help?” I said.

  Chad took me by the hand. Without a word, he led me out of the house and into the woods.

  * * * *

  During the next few weeks, I brought up the topic of Chad’s mother several times.

  His responses to all of my questions were maddening. He always replied in vague sentence fragments: for example, when I asked what she was like, he shrugged and said, “A loner.” I couldn’t even tell from his responses whether or not his mother was still alive. At his apartment, I asked if I could meet his mother someday and he simply said, “I doubt it.” He then began to undo my pants…his rather affectionate (and certainly effective) way of saying, let us please change the subject.

  * * * *

  One Friday night, I showed up at the Saturnalia Coffee House before Chad and everyone else. I found Nose setting out the tin bin of beverages.

  “How’s the missus?” I said.

  He turned and looked sadly at me. His ointment smelled seemed especially strong that day.

  “I don’t talk about that—” He paused for a split second. “—woman. Don’t get on my bad side. You’re a nice guy, Brent. I don’t mind Chad liking boys and all that. That’s fine with me. And it’s just as well.”

  “Just as well?” I could only echo his words, since I had no idea what he meant.

  “Well, yeah. Chad ought not to start any families.” He began to say something else, then paused, as though rethinking what to say next. “Me and Chad, our relationship is all screwed-up. It wasn’t easy raising him. All by myself.”

  I decided to be persistent. “What about his mom?”

  As soon as the words were of my mouth, Nose looked up. Almost involuntar
ily. Then he looked back at me and said, “His mother is dead. We don’t like talking about her.”

  I thought about what was above us. The second floor? Nose lived up there. Every now and then, he would ask one of the poetry night regulars to fetch something—a corkscrew, or extra glasses—from his upstairs kitchen. The place had piles of newspapers and old clothes scattered everywhere. The third floor? That was the attic. I’d never been up there.

  I left Nose to his chores and walked out of the mansionette. Once outside, I looked up at the attic. A dim, slightly bluish light shone through the curtains in the windows.

  As I stood there, staring up at the Saturnalia Coffee House, I began to wonder…to formulate theories. I knew she was up there. Had Nose chopped her up and stuffed her in an old trunk? Was she hanging from a noose, all withered and moldy? Maybe she was still alive but as scary as hell--drooly and white-haired and insane…

  The poetry folks began to show up. I walked around to the other side of the house, thinking. Was there some way I could slip up to the attic?

  A catalpa tree, a bit taller than the house, grew next to the back porch. Several of the branches extended over the roof. A gable window jutted from the side of the roof. Of course, I had no intention of shimmying up that tree…

  I then noticed that the tree had a makeshift ladder of old boards nailed up along the trunk, leading to the remnants of a treehouse.

  I walked into the woods and waited for an hour. By that time, I knew, the poetry reading would be in full swing. There was a full moon out, so I had enough light to see where I was climbing. I ran to the tree and began to climb up the board ladder.

  The boards were fairly close together, to accommodate a small child. I pictured an eight-year-old Chad climbing up to the treehouse, and the image saddened me. I felt that the treehouse would have been a place for Chad to hide. From Nose…from other mean kids…or perhaps, from his mother.