by Edward Lee
G: How often did this happen, Erik?
T: Usually, a couple times a year they’d have a big hustig, but every hustig was like a preparation for the Fulluht Loc.
G: Tell me more about the Fulluht Loc, Erik.
T: And sometimes they’d punish us, the wreccans, I mean, if we didn’t bring in enough hüsls, or they’d punish us just for kicks, ’cause they got off on that. I remember one time I was supposed to bring in a hüsl but I couldn’t find any so the wifmunuc had all the wreccans fuck me, and other times they’d order us to fuck one of the corpses before they cooked—
G: Tell me more about the demon, Erik.
T: —all kinds of awful shit, stuff like you never heard, like you could never imagine, but they’ve been doing it for eons, man, for her. That’s how they worship her.
G: The demon, you mean? That’s how they worshipped the
T: —and I can’t tell you how many times I went down there and they’re cutting some guy’s head off and bleeding him into a chettle, a chettle’s a big pot they cook in, and a lotta times they’d be sitting on some guy hammering nails into his head or sticking knitting needles in his ears—
G: Erik, Erik—
T: Yeah man the grossest shit you could imagine and it was all a big kick to them like hauling some guy’s guts out while he’s still alive or hanging some girl upside down and cutting off her head and bleeding her into a chettle for a hustig and all kinds of shit yeah man, that’s what the dreams were like…
G: Dreams Erik? These were dreams?
T: No, no, I mean they were like dreams, they seemed like dreams but after a while you knew they weren’t dreams at all. You knew they were real.
(Patient suddenly cessates. Heart rate 72. Hypnosynthesis
suspended as patient no longer responds.)
Dreams, Dr. Harold reflected. Demons. The court would not authorize further hypnosynthesis or narcoanalysis. They were satisfied that Tharp was just a bipolar schizophrenic acting out a dream delusion. The case was closed. But that did not erase the discrepancies. No wonder Greene was never satisfied. Erik Tharp clearly suffered from a hallucinotic delusion, yet his tarsal plate reactivity, his psych test results, and his visual assessment scores did not indicate delusional behavior. These weren’t things a person could fake. He put the transcripts up and dug back into the bag, extracting the notebooks. Tharp’s only real recreation on the ward was drawing. Immediately, Dr. Harold noticed a rudimentary yet detailed artistic skill. The drawings were fascinating; there were hundreds of them. Many of the strange words from Tharp’s monologues had been written between the scenes. Hüsl. Peow. Wreccan. A sketch of a queue of naked women cutting up a man had been underscored with: Wîhan. More women looked up to a full moon with arms outstretched: doefolmon. Many of the sketches depicted orgies, nude women drawn to great detail on top of blank faced men. Sexespelle, they read, and many had subordinate figures standing aside, similarly blank faced. Yet one face in each was obviously Tharp’s artistic rendition of himself: pallid, wide eyed, staring. And here was a full page sketch: he’d drawn himself holding a shovel in some dense forest dell. Byrgorwreccan, it read. Patients, particularly schizophrenics and hallucinotics, frequently created their own vocabularies for their personal dementias. The word Fulluht-Loc appeared frequently, and even more frequently: liloc.
It was all sexual. Tharp’s madness must have been a byproduct of gross sexual fears. He didn’t hate women, like temporal misogynists, he feared them. The male figures in the sketches had been assigned crude facial identities. But the women were different. Their bodies had been drawn to painstaking erotic detail, yet there was one thing they all lacked.
Faces.
None of the women had faces, and that was another clear sign of a delusional sexual phobia. He can’t, Dr. Harold realized. He can’t draw their faces because he’s afraid to.
Dr. Harold turned a random page. He paused.
Here was a face.
God, he thought. Its clarity stunned him. He was looking at a full page drawing of a woman. The moon shone through brambles and streaks of trees; the woman was standing in a dell. Dr. Harold actually shivered. The sketch was more than a sketch—it was a dichotomy, a wedding of extremes. Revulsion clashed with erotic beauty. The perverse clashed with the reverent. What was going on in Tharp’s mind when he penned this? Dr. Harold had seen quite a bit of patient artwork in his time. Art was a catharsis, and a demented person’s catharsis logically reflected demented art. But this…
Dr. Harold had never seen anything like it. It was atrocious… and lovely. Eloquent, and harrowing. He’d never looked at a work of art so beautiful and yet so obscene.
The woman stood beseechingly. Her hands were out, as if to invite embrace, yet the fingers were exceedingly long, and nails protracted like sleek, fine talons. Long legs rose to form a perfect hourglass figure. The breasts had been drawn so scrupulously they seemed three dimensional upon the page. They were high, large, with large dark circles for nipples. The pubis had been drawn similarly: a shining, downy thatch against pure white skin. The woman’s hair was a great dark mane. Twin diminutive nubs seemed to protrude from the forehead, almost like—
Like horns, Dr. Harold realized.
And the face…
The face was nothing more than two slitlike eyes above a black opened maw full of needle teeth.
—
Chapter 18
Something bothered Martin all day. The dream, of course. The naked girls queerly painting trees in the middle of the night. The parcels he’d buried, and then Melanie… And Maedeen…
He tried all day to forget about it. Even Ann, with her own dream traumas, had noticed he wasn’t himself. They’d had lunch and taken a drive. He’d hoped a nice scenic drive would get his thoughts away, but anywhere he looked he saw the woods, and when he saw the woods he saw the dream. They’d driven by the general store and he’d seen Maedeen outside sweeping the walk. She’d turned and waved as if she’d sensed them driving by. Martin subtly shuddered. The momentary glimpse gave him an erection.
All right, I’m attracted to her, he realized. So what? That’s why God made women good looking, isn’t it?
But it was more than that. He knew it was.
That morning, he and Ann had made love. Lately, it seemed something wasn’t right between them, that she wasn’t enjoying it. Male paranoia, he’d always concluded. Was he rationalizing? It was a fact he didn’t want to face: this time, when they’d made love, he hadn’t been thinking of Ann at all. He had been thinking of Maedeen.
Suddenly, Ann shivered.
“What’s wrong?”
She looked distractedly past the windshield, just as Martin pulled the Mustang around the town square, past the church. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just feel fidgety.” But it seemed that she’d shivered just as they’d passed the church.
“You didn’t sleep well last night. You had the nightmare again, didn’t you?”
Ann nodded. “It keeps getting worse, and there’s more to it now, more details. And lately…” Her words trailed off.
“And?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She seemed confused. “Lately, I’ve been having some kind of vertigo. Like just now. I’ll be wide awake, and all of a sudden I’ll see something.”
Martin slowed through the crossing lights. “What did you see?”
Ann shivered again. “Nothing.”
Martin knew when to lay off. “You’re not getting enough sleep,” he ventured. “This nightmare’s turning you inside out. Maybe you should call Dr. Harold, see what he thinks.”
“No, that would be silly. I will not let my whole life shake apart because of a stupid nightmare.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Martin said. “I had a nightmare last night too.”
Ann looked at him abruptly. “Melanie’s also having nightmares.”
“It must run in the family,” Martin attempted to laugh it off. “Relax, will you? You worry way too much about her.”
“Martin, let’s not get into that again.”
“Okay, okay.” He headed back to the house. But he knew he was right. Ann’s difficulties were compounding. Her father dying, her mother’s adversity, the canceled vacation. Now she had this “vertigo” in conjunction with the nightmare. Too many things were building up at once, weighing her down.
Martin wondered how close she was to breaking.
«« — »»
Ann didn’t know what to tell him. Sooner or later he’s going to think I’m going nuts. Yes, her nightmare just kept getting worse, and now this vertigo. She couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. Was it part of the dream she wasn’t remembering? It was like a gory daydream. Wide awake she’d suddenly shiver—
—and see red.
She’d see hands plunging a knife into someone, a wide silver blade sinking repeatedly into naked flesh. The dead silent backdrop made it even worse; in this vision all she could hear was the steady slup slup slup of the knife. And all she could see: blood flying everywhere, breasts and belly quivering as the blade continued to rise and fall, rise and fall…
Slup slup slup…slup slup slup…
The face of the victim couldn’t be seen, but somehow she felt convinced that the person being butchered was herself.
Martin parked the Mustang on the street; several cars filled the driveway. In the foyer, Ann noticed her mother entertaining several guests in the dining room. Mrs. Gargan was there, and Constance, Dr. Heyd’s wife, plus the widowed Mrs. Virasak, and a few of Lockwood’s other elderwomen. They chatted softly, drinking tea. But when Ann’s mother noticed her, she got up quickly from the table and drew closed the dining room doors.
“She knows how to make a person feel welcome,” Martin joked. “What are they doing in there?”
“Who knows?” Ann said. “Who cares?”
“I’m going to sit out back, try to get some writing done.”
“Okay,” Ann said. Several times now she’d seen him grab his pad and disappear into the spacious backyard. He seemed to find peace here, every poet’s quest, which made Ann slightly jealous. Martin liked it here. At least if he hated it, she wouldn’t feel so alone.
Upstairs she looked around for Melanie. Her room was empty, but she heard water running—the shower. Ann peered out the window and saw Martin sitting in a lawn chair at the edge of the woods. His pad lay in his lap, his hand poised. He seemed to be looking up at the sky with his eyes closed.
“Hi, Mom,” Melanie greeted. She came in wearing her dark robe and had a towel around her head. “Where have you been?”
“Martin and I went for a drive. We were thinking of going to the inn for dinner. Want to come?”
“I won’t be able to make it. I’m meeting some friends.”
Ann sat down on the bed, perturbed. “You haven’t mentioned much about these new friends of yours.”
“Oh, Wendlyn, Rena? They’re pretty cool.”
Pretty cool. Ann smirked. “I saw you with a boy yesterday.”
Melanie smiled. “That’s Zack. He’s cool too.”
“He looks like your friends back home, leather jacket and—”
“Come on, Mom,” Melanie dismissed, drying her light brown hair with the towel. “He’s really nice, and we have a lot in common.”
“Like what?”
“Music. He listens to all the groups I like, even Killing Joke. And you should see his stereo, it’s huge.”
“Melanie.” Ann leaned forward as if concentrating. “Are you telling me you were in this boy’s house? Alone?”
“He doesn’t live in a house. He lives in the church basement.”
This didn’t sound right. “He lives in the church? What about his parents?”
“He doesn’t have any; he’s an orphan. Grandma gave him a job as a custodian or something.”
Grandma, Ann thought sourly. It was one obstruction after the next. Ann’s mother was regarded as the town’s matriarch, loved by all. Melanie was making friends here. Martin wrote better here. Where did all this leave Ann?
On the outside, she answered herself. “I just don’t think I approve of your hanging around with some boy you just met.”
“I’m not a little kid anymore, Mom. I’m an adult.”
“Is that so?”
“Let’s not argue.” Very abruptly, Melanie took off her robe. She sat down naked at the antique vanity to comb her hair.
Ann swallowed her shock. Melanie had never disrobed in front of her, at least not down to the skin. But she did so now as if it were natural. Ann felt she should comment on this immodesty, but what could she say? Certainly, there was nothing unnatural about a mother seeing her daughter unclothed.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” Melanie could see Ann’s face in the vanity’s big framed mirror. “You act like you’ve never seen me naked.”
“Well, I haven’t really. Not in years.” But she thought: She is an adult. Melanie’s body had indeed blossomed. She’d been skinny as an adolescent, boyish. Now her breasts had filled out, and the straight lines of her early teens had given over to a nice feminine shapeliness. The firm orbs of her breasts jogged slightly as she combed her hair out in the mirror. Then she stood up, just as abruptly, and turned. Ann couldn’t help but glimpse the fresh young body from head to toe.
“I’m growing up, Mom.”
“I know, honey. Sometimes that’s a hard thing for a mother to realize, that’s all.”
And it was, wasn’t it? Her shock reverted to a dim despair. Melanie had bloomed into womanhood nearly without Ann’s even knowing it. Too busy, she regretted. Too busy trying to make partner to even notice your own daughter growing up.
Melanie quickly slipped into a pair of black acid washed jeans, then pulled on a dark blue “Car Crash Symphony” T shirt. Ann felt like an old curmudgeon sitting on the bed.
Melanie kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be home early.”
“Bye.”
But Ann had wanted to stop her, to ask her something that had been bothering her of late. Are you a virgin? she’d wanted to ask. But how could she ask something like that without sounding even more curmudgeonish?
Melanie left.
Ann felt old, depressed, naive—all at once. A glance out the window showed Martin wandering off into the looming woods, seeking his muse. How much more distanced could Ann feel from the people in her life? She and her mother were constantly at odds. She didn’t understand Martin’s creative joys at all. And her daughter had grown up right under her nose.
She sat back down on the bed. And my father’s dying, and I hardly ever even knew him.
A tear threatened to form in her eye.
Then she shivered…
Slup slup slup, she heard …slup slup slup…
The vertigo returned. The glaring red vision streamed again through her mind: a fisted hand plunging the knife down. Blood spewing. Naked breasts and belly quivering each time the blade buried itself to the hilt…
—
Chapter 19
“Oh, hello, Ann.”
Ann gave a start. The double doors to the den abruptly slid open, and standing there was Mrs. Gargan, redolent with cologne.
“How are you today, Mrs. Gargan?”
“Oh, I’m fine. What are you up to?”
But Mrs. Gargan’s stiff posture and stiff, make-upped face made Ann feel sidetracked. Past her shoulder, Ann could see her mother and several friends looking through a photo album at the table. Mrs. Gargan’s rigid smile and dark eyes seemed fixed on her.
“I’ve just been puttering around,” she said after a pause. “I thought I’d go upstairs and look in on my father.”
“Yes, of course. Feel free to join us later for tea.”
Yeah, right. Ann’s mother and friends flipped through the photo album as if in deep concentration. They commented quietly at each turn of a page. Ann couldn’t hear them.
“I will,” Ann balked. “See you later.”
She went upstairs as Mrs. G
argan headed for the kitchen. Ann could imagine the banality of joining her mother and friends for tea, pooh poohing over the album. Mrs. Gargan, of course, was just being polite. The stiff cordiality told Ann what she already knew: Ann was Lockwood’s prodigal daughter; she would never be fully welcome here.
Upstairs, the grimly familiar beep led her to the room. Her father’s cardiac monitor. Ann hated that sound. Milly was sponging off her father’s chest. The chest looked waxen, pale.
“Hi, Milly.”
The nurse turned, smiled. “Have you seen Dr. Heyd around?”
“No, not in a while. Is anything wrong?”
“Oh, no, no.” Milly fidgeted in a medical bag, hooked up a new IV. “Everything’s fine.” Her smile turned coy. “I’ve heard Melanie has taken a liking to someone.”
“Oh, yeah. Zack. Do you know him?”
Milly laughed, a strange reaction. “You don’t have to worry about him. Actually, he’s a very nice boy, very helpful. You might be put off a little by the way he dresses, but that’s kind of silly nowadays, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” Ann said, though reluctantly.
“But you seem bothered by it, or something.”
Did she? I’m bothered by a lot of things. “Motherly concern, I suppose. Do things like that ever bother you?”
Milly laughed again. “My daughter’s a bit too young for Zack; she’s only fifteen. But as mothers we have to realize that eventually our daughters grow up. Didn’t you have a crush on boys when you were a teenager?”
Ann sat down, thinking. It was a revelatory question. “I guess I did,” she said. “But there never seemed to be many boys my age in Lockwood.”
