Trolley No. 1852

by Edward Lee

  She walked shakily to the ornate door, opened it, but halted, to turn her tear-streaked face to me a final time.

  I smiled as I hadn’t in decades. “Go.”

  And she was gone.

  Miss Aheb traipsed slowly about the grand chamber, as if mulling penetrative thoughts. “You seem a sincere man, Mr. Phillips, in a world where men are anything but. Your thoughts remain surprisingly clear, and I’m impressed by that. But should you ever harbour hope of escape, don’t bother. Perhaps you’ll one day entertain the notion that your sister will report the existence of the 1852 Club to the authorities, and they’ll storm through the door and wrest back your freedom. But what you must know is that no one ever finds the club save for those I allow to find it.”

  “I’m not surprised by the intricacies of your powers, madam; rest assured, I shall never challenge them. After all… A deal’s a deal.”

  She turned, then, to slowly approach me.

  She snapped her fingers, and in moments, I stood in the midst of the brothel’s ladies of pleasure, all of whom remained naked and raving in their slatternly appeal. One by one they undressed me of all my garb, then commenced to re-dress me…

  … in the trousers, tunic, boots, and regulation cap of a trolley-car conductor.

  That bizarre fugue, impossible as it was, rose to a steady, lamenting dirge in my head, and it was then that Miss Aheb placed the pendant about my neck.

  “Consider yourself blessed,” her lithe accent hissed. “You are the new conductor for the trolley.”

  “So be it,” I croaked.

  It was the delightful and very spirited tart named Ammi who, with a lascivious grin, held the mirror before my face.

  The silver veins shined back…

  Into the features of my nondescript visage the brand of the Pyramidiles had now been imbued: that nauseating swirl of swamp-foam green with corpse-white.

  “From here on, you exist to serve the Pyramidiles,” Miss Aheb’s hellish voice echoed so very softly, and then over my face she placed the parchment mask…

  “Go now, Conductor Phillips. The trolley is ready to depart.”

  3.

  Hence, the sum of all my destiny’s parts. I conduct the trolley now, in my ghastly mask of death, during the blackest and most silent hours of eventime. A new motorman was easily procured, identical in function—and in atrociousness—to the first. When not transporting appropriately virile guests to and from the club, or making the periodic “ingressions” to that howling terrorscape upon which the execrable Pyramidiles live to suck up like wine the horrors of countless worlds, I serve these abyssal mountains of flesh and their blasphemous, aeons-old acolyte, Isimah el-Aheb. I serve the latter quite carnally and in ways too lewd to iterate; and I serve the former quite traitorously via the inter-worldly deliveries of sperm so abundantly pilfered from the club’s unsuspecting suitors. Much of that consignment, to my eternal shame, is my own, and when on one bleak day in the future two billion thoggs are unleashed upon my planet, I shudder to think how many of them will have been sired by me…

  And as for the question of how long the earth shall last, I cannot estimate. Another day, perhaps, or another thousand years. Whichever the case may be, my new grotesque immortality will ensure that I am here to witness it all. As for my beloved sister, I never saw her again, and I can only, however thinly, pray to Erwin’s God that she is safe, unexploited, and, above all, alive.

  And in times when I am in farthest proximity from my wretched mastress (and hence farthest from her prying grey matter) I dare to entertain the hope that I may eventually condition my mind to veil its thoughts soundly enough from her psychically-clutching powers and then devise some manner by which I may destroy her and close forever this horrid ingressional rive. But until that day may dawn…

  My name is Morgan Phillips, and I am the conductor of Trolley No. 1852.

  THE END

  — | — | —

  When the sudden and rather annoying series of raps sounded from the downstairs foyer, Howard frowned up from his current work-in-progress which, upon conclusion, he believed he would entitle “The Shadow Out of Time.” But, oh, how he deplored interruptions! What’s more, he hoped the intrusion didn’t disturb his aunt who was still feebly recuperating from a broken hip.

  “Howard!” came her shrill voice. “There’s someone at the—”

  In the name of He Who Is Not To Be Named! “My perfectly serviceable auditory functions have left me so apprised, Auntie,” he raised his voice in response. “We can at least rest assured that it’s not the landlord, since I’ve paid the next six months’ rent.”

  “What a fine, gifted boy you are, Howard…”

  I’m forty-four and she still calls me a boy… He shot down the stairs, hoping to circumvent more rapping, but upon opening the door, he was taken startlingly aback by the physical presence of the visitor. Poised opposite within the doorway was a significantly handsome woman with shining, shoulder-length tresses of hair the colour of sunlight, and penetrating noon-blue eyes. Even in the long, autumn-leaf overcoat, her sonsy bosom and copious curvations were so evident, the writer’s power of speech stalled outright.

  “Do I have the pleasure of standing before the renowned H.P. Lovecraft?” she asked in a silken wisp of a voice.

  “I… er, uh…” Not one to ordinarily be struck dumb by the vision of a notably attractive woman, the writer could only gulp ludicrously in repeated attempts to make an affirmative response. The woman’s cleavage blared at him from the V beneath her smart collar.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. Perhaps I have the wrong address…”

  “I’m Howard Lovecraft, yes,” he finally erupted, “but-but-but, I’d hardly refer to myself as renowned.”

  “You’re too humble, sir!” she exclaimed, and then a smile that could’ve been painted by Rubens illuminated her flawlessly angled face. “Do pardon the interruption, Mr. Lovecraft. I’m Francine Wilcox, the publisher of Erotesque.”

  Howard nearly fell into a faint; and could do little more than stammer syllabic fragments. “I—but. The directory said. Um. Franklin Wilcox. I could never. Imag—”

  A casual laugh as she tossed her head, piloting luscious scents off her shining hair. “Oh, no, sir, that’s my brother. I only share the flat with him.” She hunched her shoulders, compressing the already-awesome mammarian cleft. “It’s quite chilly out, Mr. Lovecraft. If I could just impose on a smidgen more of your good nature?”

  Howard felt as though he’d somehow just kicked himself in the back of the head. “Oh, do forgive me, Miss Wilcox,” and with a shaking hand brought her into the foyer.

  She turned to him as he closed the door. “I’m sure you’re quite busy with your writing, so I won’t tarry…”

  “Oh, tarry, please, tarry all you like,” his words jerked. “I’m actually taking a breather from my current bit of work.”

  Did those radiant blue eyes steal a glimpse to his groin? Don’t be outlandish! he thought.

  “At any rate, your wonderful submission, ‘Trolley No. 1852’ brought such accolades from myself and my entire editorial staff that I simply had to visit you in person in order to notify you of its immediate acceptance.”

  Howard felt petrified in jubilation, to the extent that his heart skipped a few beats. An acceptance meant… Another cheque! “Why, that’s—that’s—that’s—”

  Did the subtle accentuation of her grin indicate some cryptic signal of the lascivious? “Oh, yes, sir! Your story caused quite a row!” Like a card player’s sleight of hand, she at once offered a bank cheque. “So without further delay, I’d like to give you this, with my greatest thanks.”

  Howard’s heart skipped a few more beats when his eyes found the words Pay to the order of H.P. Lovecraft the sum of $500. So not only had the second cheque arrived, it had been, of all things, hand-delivered!

  “I—I—I,” he mumbled.

  “The story will appear in next month’s issue, and, well…” She paused as if un
comfortable. “I couldn’t impose by asking…”

  Howard finally rid himself of the proverbial frogs that had found their way to his throat. “Ask, um, what?”

  “We know that authors in such popular demand as yourself have so little time for alternate demonstrations of their talent, as I’m sure you’re far too busy with your important work to ever entertain the prospect of, say, writing for us on a regular basis—”

  Howard nearly fell back against the wall.

  “Say, four times a year? And for no less payment, naturally.”

  The frogs returned in multiplicity, and after coming close to choking on them, he croaked, “I accept…”

  She looked beyond belief, batting her long-lashed eyes. “Thank you very much, sir,” and then she opened her hand over her heart. “It’s been a true honour meeting you.”

  Howard looked at her, agog. “You’re-you’re not leaving already?”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t impose further. I know you’re terribly busy—”

  “I’m not busy!” he came very close to shouting. Think, you lackwit! Think! “Um, well… oh! Please adjourn with me to my… writing chamber. I have coffee!”

  Francine seemed to fully blush, and she replied in a hot gush, “I was so hoping you’d ask, sir.”

  Only when Howard had climbed half the flight’s steps was he stricken by a propulsive sense of dread. My room… it’s—it’s… It stood in such unkemptness and disrepair that he didn’t dare let her see it. There were empty bean cans all about, and myriad ginger snap crumbs, not to mention mouse droppings galore.

  He cleared his throat. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to take our coffee in the hall—”

  “What?”

  “You see, I wasn’t expecting a guest and-and-and…”

  “Oh, Mr. Lovecraft, please! All great artists are messy. They’re too busy crafting their great art to piddle valuable time with mundane chores such as housekeeping. It’s said that Michelangelo never once cleaned his floor, and in fact only cleaned himself a few times per year. Samuel Coleridge wrote ‘Rime’ in what he described as his ‘happy hovel.’”

  Howard turned, encouraged. “You don’t say? Coleridge?”

  The comely face nodded behind him. “Really, sir, don’t be self-conscious over your room’s appearance. In all honesty, I’d be disappointed to find it tidy. However, clean or dirty, I’d be honoured to stand in the very room where the great H.P. Lovecraft has written so many ground-breaking tales.”

  “Well… since you put it that way.”

  He brought her to the landing; whereupon, his aunt’s voice sailed from the next room. “Howard! Who’s that you’re talking to?”

  For the love of Pegana! Howard let his face stiffen to sternness. “Auntie, please! I’m in the midst of a consultation of import with a very noteworthy editor from New York.”

  “How wonderful, Howard…”

  Next, he took a deep breath, thought, My room probably smells more foul than the cellar of the Shunned House, and opened his door. “Rrrrr-right this way, Miss Wilcox.”

  “Oh, please. Call me Francine…”

  He stepped aside and let her pass.

  Instead of gagging, or rolling her eyes, her long shapely legs took her in haste to his writing-table. She smoothed her hands, as if in adoration, over the cluttered desktop, let her fingers trace across the keys of his decades-old typing-machine, then picked up his fountain pen and held it as if it were an icon. “This is so exciting,” she whispered and even appeared to have a tear in her eye. “To touch the same desk upon which so many masterpieces of horror have been composed… and to have in my own hands… the same pen.”

  Howard didn’t know what to say. I stole the pen from the library, and the desk came from a neighbour’s rubbish heap.

  “You must tell me, sir—”

  “Howard, please.”

  Her cheeks turned rosy. “How did you devise such an imaginative tale as ‘Trolley No. 1852?’”

  Here in the light from the window, Howard took greater note of her body’s voluptuous secrets beneath the smart, belted overcoat. Certainly, she wore a brassiere and blouse as well, yet he could swear that the distinct out-dents of formidable areolae were evident. “Oh,” he sloughed off, “it was more creative self-cannibalism than any feat of elaborate imagination. I merely took several samplings from my Yog-Sothian pantheon, stripped them to the bone, and added new flesh. Old wine into new bottles? The nefarious ancient hag, Keziah Mason, was metamorphosed to the lusty-physiqued but corrupt-skinned witch-priestess Isimah el-Aheb; the planet Yuggoth became the para-dimensional terrascape; my shoggoths became thoggs; the shimmering violet flux of ‘Dreams in the Witch-House’ became the Abhorrescence; and my ‘daemon-sultan’ Azathoth who lives lifelessly at the pith of Chaos became the Pyramidiles.” Howard’s stooped shoulders shrugged. “It was quite simple, actually.”

  “You’re too lenient in your appraisal of your talent, Howard.” She took a breath, then grinned and blushed once more. “And the sex scenes! I won’t even ask how you conceived of those!”

  Howard fidgeted. Delighted as he was by her charming presence and flattering air, face-to-face discourse entailing matters of licentiousness with a member of the opposite sex made him uncomfortable. Instead, he uttered, “Oh, they just came to me and I wrote them.”

  Perhaps she sensed his discomfiture, for, next, she abruptly turned her back to him and gazed through the window in the space between the swags. (Regular folk had “curtains” over their windows; poor writers had “swags”: any sundry fabric that had outlived its original purpose, such as old bedsheets or holey shirts, tacked over the panes. One writer, in the distant future, would have shower-curtain liners and dollar-store beach towels over his windows, a note mentioned here only in passing.) However, Francine seemed awed. “So this is the view that the master of modern horror sees every day when he writes…”

  “Why, yes, and it’s a view near and dear to me,” Howard said, but just as the comely woman seemed awed by the sight of west Providence, Howard remained equally awed by the sight of her jutting rump as she leaned over his writing-table. His eyes inched downward, scouring first the derriere’s exquisite curves, then the legs which could only be described as absolutely and inarguably bereft of defect. Momentarily, her heels rose out of her shoes as she stood on tiptoes, and Howard actually cringed like a fetishist, for the action caused her gorgeously toned calves to flex…

  “The epicenter of what you’re looking at is called Federal Hill,” he remarked after a gulp. “Oh, pardon me! I forgot the coffee!” and then he embarked for the alcove where the pot percolated.

  When he was out of Francine’s view, Howard did something he never did…

  He gave his crotch a squeeze.

  Oh… my…

  He heard her voice as he tended to the cups.

  “But, Howard, why are your swags half-closed? You’d have a much better view if you opened them more.”

  Howard’s hands shook minutely as he poured the brew, yet as he did so, a mouse popped its head out of a toppled soda-cracker box. Wonderful, he thought with a frown. But he hated spending money on traps! To her query, however, he responded, “Oh, I suppose you’re right but I never bother, in fear that the swags might fall and, hence, inundate me in dust.”

  She laughed. “You’re so silly, Howard! But you really must let me improve this view for you…”

  What an odd choice of words, he mused and then took the twin, aromatic cups back to his writing chamber.

  He stopped cold.

  The view, indeed, had been improved, as he found it impossible not to take immediate notice of two paramount changes.

  One, Francine hadn’t opened the swags at all but instead had closed them! She’d also turned on the shadeless incandescent lamp he used at night…

  Two, she sat up now upon the writing-table after having shed completely her handsome overcoat, to reveal that all along she’d been utterly nude beneath…

  “Hav
e I improved the view for you, Howard?” her whisper flowed like some warm, ambrosian fluid.

  “I…should say so.” The mere vision of the woman’s flawless nudity left Howard feeling as though he were staring down from a precipice of insurmountable height.

  “Oh, Howard. Please come closer to me…”

  In gingerly steps he did so, making every effort not to allow his shaking hands to spill the coffee. Even knowing as he did—the extreme degree by which he now violated every gentleman’s law—he stared unblinking at, first, the dizzyingly full breasts whose tea-rose-pink nipples stood so gorged they even seemed to minutely beat with the pace of her heart; the poreless skin smooth as the finest white chocolate; then—in the most shameful departure from urbanity—the glorious mound of pubic thatch shiny as new-spun gold and the tantalizing, half-seen secret of its precious folds which clearly glimmered in anticipatory excitement.

  Her face looked dreamy yet burning up in wanton intent. “Make my dream come true, Howard…”

  Howard stammered, “But—but…the coffee!”

  “Oh, bugger the coffee!” Francine whined, and so excited was she that those secret folds tucked beneath the blond private hair had leaked her equally private nectar onto the very pages of his holograph of “The Shadow Out of Time.”

  “I need to have the dickens fucked out of me,” she pleaded now, “by the great H. P. Lovecraft…”

  So upon the universal edict that the true gentleman never fails to oblige a lady, Howard, after setting aside the two cups of Postum, lowered his trousers and engaged himself as requested. The details of this engagement need not be elaborated upon; however, attentive readers will very much want to be educated as to whether or not the real Howard was possessed of a masculine endowment commensurate with that of his courageous protagonist, Mr. Morgan Phillips.