In Heaven, Everything Is Fine: Fiction Inspired by David Lynch

by Thomas Ligotti

  Harry spends some time appreciating the new napkin.

  “Pie. Apple pie,” he says. “And a coffee. Black. With no sugar.”

  Dianna nods, scribbles in a notepad and turns toward Dean.

  “Just a coffee. Black. No sugar.”

  “Make sure there’s no sugar,” adds Harry.

  Dianna rolls back toward the kitchen, her dress billowing from beneath her pure white apron. A man in a white suit stained yellow with sweat and life experience approaches the jukebox that sits between the male and female toilets. After a brief interaction with the jukebox the Weimer era vaudeville is switched off and Alberta Hunter’s ‘Downhearted Blues’ glides through the diner. The man in the stained white suit turns with his back to the jukebox and weeps as Hunter’s pained vocals overcome him. The two men in football uniforms rise from their non-regular booth and move toward the weeping man, stopping just short of him and embracing. Together the forgotten footballers dance, each compelling the other to lead. Their beards entangle and break loose of their collars.

  Harry and Dean watch the men. Harry can feel the insects in his stomach vibrating with hunger. The vibration climbs Harry’s veins, filling his body, distorting Hunter’s vocals, turning it into laughter. Dean begins to sing:

  Gee, but it’s hard to love someone

  When that someone don’t love you

  I’m so disgusted, heartbroken, too

  I’ve got those downhearted blues

  Dianna skates circles around a grease stain in the kitchen while The Cooker warms up Harry’s pie. Food erupts with spits of fat while it dies on the fryer. The grease stain looks like a star on Hollywood’s walk of fame and Dianna believes she sees her name. Saucepans bleed steam on the stovetop. Dianna lowers to her knees to be closer to the star. The microwave beeps success. Dianna touches the star, running her fingers through its center. The Cooker removes the slice of pie from the microwave. Dianna brings her blueberry lips toward the star. The Cooker smothers the pie in a squirt of whipped cream. Dianna’s glistening tongue toys with touching the star. The Cooker rings a shrill bell.

  “Food’s ready!” he shouts.

  Dianna fumbles to her feet, steadying herself on a sink. She clutches the plate in her hand and places it on a tray. She collects two white mugs and pours syrupy black coffee into each. The coffee smells like crushed ants.

  “Take it out to the gentlemen,” says The Cooker with a raised, strike-ready hand.

  Dianna rolls toward the diner but pauses at the threshold that separates it from the kitchen. She closes her eyes. She feels as though this may be a movie. The lights warm her face and the set is prepared for the big scene. She moves toward Harry and Dean’s booth. This is not the same diner. This is not the same life Dianna awoke to.

  Once I was crazy ’bout a man

  He mistreated me all the time

  The next man I get has got

  To promise to be mine, all mine

  Alberta Hunter plays on a loop and the air conditioning vents drone in rhythmic waves to greet her siren call. Patrons abandon their food and join the footballers who continue their dance. People pair up randomly and move against each other’s bodies. Pores forfeit beads of sweat that lose themselves on the bodies of others. Dianna has stalled halfway between the kitchen and the booth. The writhing bodies steal her attention and the tray drops from her hands. Spikes of coffee reach from their mugs as they collide with the ground. The slice of apple pie splits and collapses. Pitch-black cockroaches push through the processed apple sludge and scurry toward the dancers. Dianna follows; mashes them beneath her roller skates and leaves their crushed bodies behind as she joins the dance.

  Trouble, trouble, I’ve had it all my days

  The dancers move aside for Dianna who now stands at their center.

  Trouble, trouble, I’ve had it all my days

  Dianna unties her apron and slings it aside.

  It seems that trouble’s . . .

  She begins to turn in slow circles.

  Going to follow me . . .

  The other dancers begin to turn in slow circles of their own.

  To my grave

  The speed of Dianna’s circles increases and she casts her gaze upward. The diner spins around her, becoming streaks of fluorescent light. Within the vortex of her circular blur, she forgets the world around her exists. Dianna is a star. Dianna is a star. Dianna is a star. Dianna falls to the floor and her world turns black. Dianna falls to the floor and her scene is over.

  Dean Mensberg sits in the same booth as every other day across from his companion, Dianna Lane. Dean wears a grey leisure suit that he may have been born in. It sucks at his body, choking out sweat that spots his forehead. Dianna is younger and sits with her chest out as if perpetually offering her body to a world of darkness. Over time, her smile has devolved into an experienced grimace—a grimace that informs the world it has already won —a grimace that suggests her big break has completely broken.

  Dianna scrutinizes the orange paper napkin that sits on the table before her. She brings her head down low until her ear kisses the formica. She raises her arm before she raises her head. It floats naked above the two of them, causing Dean discomfort.

  “What’s with the hand?” he asks Dianna.

  Dianna tilts her head toward the napkin, her arm becoming more rigid with the passing seconds.

  “What’s with the hand?” Dean asks again.

  “Look at the napkin,” replies Dianna.

  Dean directs his gaze at Dianna’s napkin, studying it, willing himself to see what Dianna sees. When he sees it, an asthma attack erupts from Dean that chokes his face red and puffs his eyeballs. He fumbles around his jacket pocket, fetching a string of rosary beads, which he presses against his forehead until the asthma subsides. Once composure has been regained, Dean raises his hand to match Dianna’s. They are prepared to keep their hands raised for as long as it takes.

  From the diner kitchen, a man called Harry watches Dean and Dianna with their hands raised. He’s been watching them the whole time, wondering what to do, wondering if he’ll be blamed. This is Harry’s first day as a waiter at the diner and he hasn’t yet amassed the courage to confront the problem. Harry doesn’t understand why he’s here. The insects in his belly dance in circles.

  HADLEY

  BEN LOORY

  The guard is taking a head count, and he comes up one man short.

  Hadley? the guard says. Hadley?

  But Hadley isn’t there.

  What are we going to do? the guard says to the other guard.

  I don’t know, the other guard says. The warden is going to be mad.

  The guard makes a big doll. The same size and shape as Hadley. He puts the doll in Hadley’s cell.

  That oughtta do it, says the other guard.

  The days go by. Everything is fine. Mealtimes are the hardest part. The guard takes “Hadley” to the mess hall in chains, as though the prisoner were under close guard. He even cuts up Hadley’s food and feeds it to him very carefully. Hadley is too dangerous, he insinuates, to be allowed to handle silverware.

  The other prisoners all are fooled.

  I wonder what Hadley did? they say.

  They hope they don’t do the same thing one day. Being fed by a guard would be humiliating.

  Then one day something awful happens.

  What is it? the guard says to the other guard.

  The other guard is white as a sheet.

  It’s the warden, he says. He wants to see Hadley.

  The guard escorts Hadley into the warden’s office. He puts him in a chair and stands beside him.

  You can go, the warden says. This is a private matter, just between Hadley and me.

  The guard looks at the warden. Then he looks at Hadley.

  I think he wants me to stay, he says.

  The guard and the warden both look at Hadley.

  Hadley doesn’t reply.

  The guard stands in the hall outside the warden’s door. H
e doesn’t know what to do. He stands there for a long, long, long time. Finally, he hears the warden calling.

  Yes? says the guard, opening the door.

  Hadley is lying on the floor.

  The prisoner is sick, the warden says. You should probably take him to the infirmary.

  The guard carries Hadley down the hall. Hadley coughs and coughs.

  It’s okay, says the guard. You’re gonna be all right.

  But he has a hard time believing what he says.

  Hadley’s eyes are swollen shut, and there are dark circles around them. His skin feels strange, and he is very cold.

  How could this happen? thinks the guard.

  The guard sits by Hadley’s bed for days.

  What’s the matter with him, Doc? he keeps saying.

  We don’t really know, the doctor says. He’s fine, except for he’s dying.

  The guard looks at Hadley.

  You can’t fix him? he says.

  No, says the doctor. We tried that. Best advice is hope and pray.

  And then he walks away.

  The guard stays in the infirmary every night. He holds Hadley’s hand and talks to him.

  Can you hear me, Hadley? he keeps saying. Can you hear me? I’m here. Can you hear me?

  But the only response he ever gets is the sound of Hadley’s shallow, ragged breathing. And then one day Hadley’s cold and still, and the guard is all by himself.

  The guard knocks on the warden’s door. He does it with the butt of his gun.

  Come in, says the warden, and the guard goes in.

  What are you doing with that? says the warden.

  What did you do to Hadley? says the guard.

  What did I do? says the warden. I did nothing.

  You did! yells the guard. He was fine until he saw you! You said something, you did something to him!

  The warden stares at the guard. Then he shakes his head.

  You wouldn’t understand, he says.

  I’ll understand, the guard says. You’ll make me.

  And he raises and cocks the gun.

  Go ahead and shoot, the warden says. You’ll never learn anything from me. Go ahead, really; be my guest. It’s not like it’ll do you any good.

  The guard’s finger tightens on the trigger, but for some reason he can’t seem to shoot. The trigger’s stuck; something’s wrong. He curses, tries again and again.

  Meanwhile, the warden laughs.

  When you’re done, he says, you’re fired. Turn in your gun on the way out. And your keys, your uniform, and badge.

  ****

  The guard stands outside the prison gates. The other guard stands beside him.

  I’m sorry, the other guard says to the guard. I don’t know why things like this happen.

  On the bus ride home, the guard sits quietly, staring out the window at the world. He watches dully as it all drifts past—all of it flat and gray. There is no sound but the sound of the engine, and the creaking of the worn-out bus. There are no other passengers on board. The guard is all by himself.

  That night in bed, the guard stares at the ceiling, trying to get it all straight.

  I’m no longer a guard, he thinks and thinks, over and over in his head.

  He tries to see himself as something else, in some other line of work, but he can’t think of a single job he would be qualified for.

  In the end, all he sees is a man in his bed, lying there in the dark. Lying there alone in the middle of the night.

  What’s the point? he says. What’s the point.

  The guard gets up. He goes to the closet. He opens it and finds an old uniform. He puts it on, takes a gun from the dresser, and then heads toward the door.

  ****

  The guard walks the streets of the sleeping town. Everywhere, everything is deserted. Here and there, he seems to see a shadow—but the shadow is always of nothing.

  Eventually the guard finds himself in the park that lies in the center of town. It’s not much more than a patch of dirt and some sickly, broken trees. The guard stands staring up at the sky—at the cold, dark, empty sky—and as he does, a cloud takes the moon, and some dead leaves scrape on by.

  The guard takes the gun out of its holster. He has owned this gun for years. He has fired it many, many times, but never for what you’d call real. He raises the gun and puts it to his head. He has never done anything like this. He has never even thought of doing such a thing. And yet here he is now, doing it. He feels the barrel against his skin. It feels cold; he can feel the roundness of the hole. He thinks of the bullet lying inside, waiting to be summoned out.

  The guard’s finger tightens on the gun’s trigger and everything inside him starts to leap. And then he feels a touch on his arm—a hand, gentle, but firm.

  The guard lowers the gun. He turns around, knowing full well what he’ll see. And there, in the dark, he sees the face of the escaped dead prisoner, Hadley.

  Please, says Hadley, hand over the gun.

  The guard does so, without question.

  You shouldn’t be handling things like this, Hadley says. It isn’t safe.

  The guard goes with Hadley back to the prison and they walk up and down the halls.

  This was your cell, the guard says to Hadley.

  Of course, says Hadley. There’s the hole.

  Hadley steps inside and kneels down, peers into the dark.

  It’s a long, long way, but not that far, he says, and starts to crawl.

  The guard stands and watches for a while, and then he looks around.

  And in the morning when the warden appears, the prison is nowhere to be found.

  WHERE WALLS WOULD HAVE

  BLAKE BUTLER

  The wide face of the far wall, the first wall, soon grew so we could not discern it from the sky—bleached white on white from years of sunning, surrounding all our minds. As the sheer white around the city fattened, our air took on new mesmerizing light, refracted back and forth between the two—light that’d blight your eyes out, though just looking long enough would get you drunk.

  The light was free. Our children suffered, in their bodies, as did we. As did the wall, which in the new heat would speak. The sound ransacked our city, a low long crinkle like book paper being ripped apart or writ upon—which, in friction with our buildings, shook our bodies and the wall.

  For weeks we could not stop laughing. Our sleep became destroyed. Caught in the air of those blown dream rooms, people hurt people. People died. The city earned its night.

  The city silent even under all that laughing, as our softer organs learned to disregard.

  The wall had been designed by men before us to show us where was where and what was when. Beyond the wall, we knew, there lay an acid ocean that could rip our bodies into blood.

  Where the far wall against the sky now seemed no longer, our sadder minds began to walk. To try to scry a way out of the city, some new exit. No. The wall would burn their skin.

  Many further bodies had to be killed for trying, as one hole rended in the far wall’s flat face might let the inside out and outside in. Might bleat again straight through our bodies, like how all those before us here had fried.

  We built another wall inside the old one, to keep kids from trying, and to muffle the new sound. This second wall was slightly higher than the first, by several men’s lengths, which made it hard to see the sky at all. The space between the new wall and the old one was deemed unhealthy, and entry punishable by perpetual imprisonment or blight.

  This second wall was bright brown, the way our sky-burnt flesh had for all of us become. From a distance, through my window, the wall looked like several thousand people in a line, their bodies all together meshing, watching on us, or looking all away.

  How you interpreted this vision became a way to say what kind of hope lived in your heart, they said. In secret I was bitter, though in the streets I grinned and sucked my tongue.

  I’d already lost my children to the Growing. I’d partitioned my old mind
. I could have shook from the saddest of us a small insurgence: This is not working. Instead, at home, at night, I carved. In wood I stole from torn down buildings I envisioned objects I’d never had and always wanted—things long forbidden in these walls. Though I could not think to call the objects as they had been—those terms absconded—I named them each with my own mind.

  For the image of the long stick used for hitting, with which once our men had gathered into teams, I chose the name Atlanta, for the city where I was born—now buried well beneath us underwater, in the Leak.

  For the image of square box from which once colors flew, images encased in them as well, frames of now forgotten men and women carried on the air with sound and light, I chose the name Belial, which I have been told means pleasure mind.

  I could not think of any name to call the oak I cut into the image of a man. No familiar someone’s names came into me, no matter how I tried.

  In great daylight our second wall hummed in vast contrition with the first. Within a wide range of the more recent, the sound wound on the air, causing little pockets of weird fission that would adhere to your skin. For a while these became popular tattoos, a sign of fearlessness or power. Soon, though, the tattoos would turn to wounds. From the slim packed slits the humming walls made, the branded bodies opened peels, pouring from them a gold or purple substance that smelled like nothing and yet burned. This gunk as well would cause more wounding, transmitted on contact, on the air.