Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

by Mark McLaughlin

  Yoyo picked up a small stone statue from one of the tables. “This little fellow. Is that a tail, or is a snake crawling up his ass?”

  “A snake: but look closer. It’s on the way out, not in.” The shopboy grinned, revealing very small, very yellow teeth. “That figurine depicts the Egyptian god of insanity. He arrived this morning — isn’t he delightful? The syllables of his name

  happen to create a riotously obscene phrase in English. Since I do not wish to offend, I shall call him ‘He-Who-Devours-Wounded-Moths.’ More than anything else, ancient Egypt is an attitude, don’t you think?”

  Zannika noticed the woman in the leather jacket talking with a group of young people outside of the display window. She watched them out of the corner of her eye, hoping they wouldn’t enter the store. Thankfully, they moved on.

  “I happened to overhear mention of an act.” The shopboy lowered his eyes. “Are you performers?”

  “Ms. Taint is.” Yoyo took Zannika by the hand. “She is a performance artist. There’s a show tonight at The Black Box. Her act is the most—”

  She dug her nails into his palm. “We mustn’t take up the nice young man’s time. He must have a trillion things to do.”

  A phone shrilled at the counter and the shopboy went to answer it.

  “You know I hate to talk about my act,” the artist said. “Why, why, why did you even bring it up?”

  “I just answered his question.” Yoyo rubbed his sore hand. “Besides, he might tell some of the other store patrons. A little word of mouth goes a long way in this set.”

  “This set? The place is as empty as a tomb.”

  “You might try being just a hair friendlier with fans and fans-to-be,” Yoyo said. “They’re your livelihood. At least give them a little smile.”

  “I’d rather give them lobotomies.” Zannika rubbed her temples. “I’m not feeling very well. I’m getting a headache.”

  “Dr. Yoyo has just the thing.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small cigarette case, but before he could open it, the shopboy returned. He held a long grey pipe which appeared to be carved from some sort of animal bone.

  “You are not feeling well? Beautiful people should feel beautiful.” The boy cocked his head to one side. “Might I suggest a headache remedy dating back to the days of our little friend, the eater of moths?”

  Zannika looked into the pipe’s bowl. It appeared to be filled with dried flower petals and bits of crystal. The shopboy lit the mixture with a silver cigarette lighter and took a puff himself. “Very pleasant,” he said. “Very soothing.”

  The artist began to suck at the pipe. The mixture was spicy—like clove cigarettes, except sharper. She detected a faint blue glow around the shopboy; perhaps the petals were mildly hallucinogenic. Yoyo had a green aura that clashed with his suit.

  A soft, sweet humming filled her head. She held up her hand and marveled at the coils of coral and deepest purple that swirled between her fingers. She felt so much better now. Perhaps someday she would come back to this shop and— What? Have sex with the shopboy? No, he was kind, but an awful eyesore. At any rate, he probably favored some oblique erotic predilection. Get more of the pipe mixture? She could probably ask for a shopping-bagful. The Snake Pit, she discerned, was an obliging establishment.

  “I think Ms. Taint has had enough, Minty,” Yoyo said as he took the pipe from Zannika and returned it to the shopboy. “We still have a few more stops to make.” The shopboy merged with the shadows of the boutique.

  “How did you know his name?” Zannika said. “He didn’t tell us. He wasn’t wearing one of those tacky name tags.”

  “I’ve been here before. Do you think I would take you to a completely unfamiliar shop?” Yoyo shook his head. “I prepare for these outings. I want our time together to be perfect. Because you are perfect. No, I take that back: perfection does not allow for potential, and you have worlds and worlds of potential.”

  * * * *

  It seemed a mistake to return to the street, Zannika thought, and yet what could she do? She couldn’t stay in The Snake Pit forever. She had to prepare for her show. The humming in her head, at first so comforting, was beginning to bother her, and the sharp red and orange auras of the pedestrians hurt her eyes.

  She looked down at herself. Her entire body crawled with glowing coral and

  purple snakes. Pythons. People always told her she was special, but she never really believed them. She assumed (often rightly) that they merely wanted something. Now, here was visual proof that she was different. Others wore their auras like tacky raincoats. Hers was vibrantly alive.

  She plucked at Yoyo’s blazer, begging for him to walk slowly. He recommended a few more boutiques, but she was no longer in the mood for shopping. She felt a little better by the time they reached the hotel. “I’m going to take a nap,” she said. “Would you be a dear and piece together some sort of outfit for the show? I wish I could do it myself but I’m dead to the world. Dead, dead, dead.”

  Zannika stumbled into the bedroom, slipped out of her dress and threw herself on the bed. Though her body came to rest on the sheets, her mind did not. That part of her floated down through the fabric and springs of the mattress. In the distance she heard Yoyo on the phone: “Meet you there, lover.” Poor Andros, the cuckolded soap stud. Her mind sank through metal and concrete, floor after floor, faster and faster, down through stone, stone, stone. She felt squeezed by the stone, the way Daddy used to squeeze her.

  She had erased Daddy’s face from her memory. All she remembered of him was his horrible desire. He had been an awful man, and she was living her revenge—telling the whole world about wicked Daddy through her art. She lived to communicate her feelings: not to any one person, but to the masses. Yoyo was the only exception. His shallowness made him a treasured confidant.

  At last she passed through the stone into a fiery river of magma. And in this fierce fluid state she felt strangely aroused. The earth’s hot blood washed lasciviously over her presence, searing away all of her cares, all of her limitations, leaving only passion and insatiable hunger.

  Aeons passed, liquid stone boiled and churned, roiled and burned, and still Zannika flowed with the heat, even after the creature in yellow roused her and covered her with a second skin of shining rags.

  She allowed the creature in yellow to lead her through the foolishly angled structure until they emerged into a great space of towering slabs dotted with brightness and a great looming void beyond. Chattering creatures pushed at her as they hurried along. The creature in yellow pushed her into the open belly of a large beast of metal.

  She wished to drink the hot living fluids of the creature in yellow, to drain him utterly dry, to reduce him and all the chattering creatures to dust. Inside the metal beast, the creature in yellow poured a clear liquid into her throat that helped to ease her thirst. The creature made her consume tiny roundnesses of white and pink.

  Zannika turned her eyes toward the creature’s face and suddenly found herself wondering if they were going to be late for The Black Box and if they had enough cash on hand for the taxi.

  Yoyo put the flask of vodka and pill case back in Zannika’s purse. “I hope you like that outfit. I thought a metallic look would be just the thing.”

  “I’m hungry,” she said. “When can we eat?”

  “Miss One-Meal-a-Day? Miss Salad-Bar-and-Mineral-Water? The club can scrounge up something for you.” Yoyo patted her hand. “At least you’re talking. Do you need another pill? We have a special audience tonight, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. Some little art league?” She looked out at the stars. How could fire look so cold? “I’m still hungry. The stars are confusing me. Are we there yet?”

  * * * *

  At The Black Box, Yoyo went off to talk to the stage manager. In her dressing room, Zannika wolfed down a steak, two baked potatoes, and a slice of chocolate cake. She decided never to return to The Snake Pit. The mixture in the pipe had reduced her comp
rehension of the world to a primal state. True, the effect had worn off, but it still frightened her. She was an artist: communication was essential to her.

  She was deafened by applause as she strolled onstage. The club was choked with swirling smoke. She picked up a remote control from on top of a large metal box in the center of the stage. With the press of a button, she activated the wall of televisions that served as the background for her performance.

  Scenes from obscure, fetish-oriented porno movies sprang up on the screens. Zannika set down the remote control and opened the metal box.

  “Meat for Daddy!” she cried, pulling out a raw chunk of beef brisket. She slapped it on the floor and against the wall of televisions. On one screen, a tall blonde with wrinkled lips sneered as she picked up a handful of clothespins.

  “Daddy loves meat!” Zannika screamed. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! Feed me meat, Daddy! Show me that you care!”

  The smoke coiling up from the audience had a spicy, familiar smell. Zannika pulled a raw chicken out of the box, selected a screen, and smeared the carcass against an especially exuberant close-up. She glanced out over the audience and blinked with surprise: she could detect auras of red and orange among the audience members. Offstage, she saw Yoyo laughing with a short, fat figure with a blue aura.

  “Meat! Meat! Meat! Daddy’s meat is so complete!” The artist reached again into the box and began to toss chunks of ground chuck against the screens. “Daddy likes cow meat! Pig meat! Woman meat!” As she screamed her litany, she suddenly realized that the audience was chanting along with her. “Red meat! White meat! Daddy wants all the meat!”

  In the front row, the woman with the leather jacket stood on her seat, screaming, “I love you, Zannika!” Angered, the artist threw a heavy slab of meat in her face. The woman sank her teeth into the prize.

  The glistening flesh on the screens also took on auras. Red, orange, magenta. Zannika suddenly began to feel hot. As hot as magma, as hot as the earth’s core. And she was hungry again.

  The black-haired woman removed her jacket, her tank top, her pants. Several other members of the audience also began to disrobe. Zannika felt drool streaming down her chin. She glanced back at the televisions and saw they had all been turned off.

  Holding hands, Yoyo and the fat shopboy walked onto the stage. “Adore Her,” they cried out in unison. Then her manager shouted, “She-Who-Hungers shall feast tonight. Worship Her, for She-Who-Hungers shall lead us into the Beyond. She-Who-Hungers desires all. Knows all. Reveals all.”

  “I’m not—” As the heat within her rose, Zannika found it difficult to speak. “Don’t—don’t—” Don’t what? She stared at the audience. What were they doing to her?

  This time, the heat did not stop with her mind. Her body turned feverish and began to expand. The metallic dress ripped and fell away as she billowed into an enormous, spongy mass, dripping with hot digestive acids. Purple and coral pythons of living power squirmed across her bulk.

  Several members of her frenzied audience climbed on stage, and she writhed with pain and delight as they thrust themselves into her: first little parts, then limbs, then entire bodies. She engulfed them with tingling ecstasy. For a moment, she considered sparing Yoyo…Then a pang of ravenous need coursed through her. She thrust out a fat ribbon of tissue and wrapped it around her manager’s throat. Another length of pink fiber shot forth to embrace the shopboy.

  Why, she wondered, had they turned off her videos? Her act wasn’t done yet! She stared sadly, longingly at the wall of televisions. Then she caught sight of a reflected image, segmented across all the dark, shiny rectangles of glass. An image of—

  Herself.

  She stared and stared, dumbfounded. She was now one big face…but not just any face. Big black ovals for eyes and a wide, curved slash of a mouth, set in an expression of banal idiocy.

  An enormous, luridly enflamed, have-a-nice-day Smiley Face.

  People from the audience were still climbing onstage and thrusting themselves into her, allowing themselves to be instantly consumed. She wanted to tell the people about desire, about meat, and as always, about Daddy. But her mind refused to focus on the task. She could feel her red-hot appetite sizzling away her intellect.

  Zannika tried desperately to cling to her power of speech. The struggle, however, was futile. Every time she opened her mouth to say something, a cluster of fans crawled inside.

  Nightmares One Through Five, and What Comes After

  Nightmare No. 1: Sex

  Smell of coffee and roses in the air and you have tiger paws (where did you get tiger paws?) and bloodstained, thread-dangling clouds smother the sun and hey, these things happen, and a figure sweeps toward you through the red twilight (long, ragged black hair hides the face) and far more than two incredibly strong, thickly veined hands grab you here and there and there, too and soon the thrusting begins and you know, these things happen, and very soon you realize that you can feel the thrusting well up into your ribcage (harder, longer, wider) and only when it reaches your throat from the inside does the feeling, the heat, the delicious swooning reeeeeally begin and yes, yes, oooooooh YES in no time at all you are little more than a layer of elastic flesh wrapped tightly, SO TIGHTLY around this massive pulsing cylinder and you say to yourself as the high-pressure jets of oily blue-green climax burst you to ragged/ecstatic/still-SO-VERY-EAGER shreds: ah well, these things happen

  Nightmare No. 2: Money

  You dropped your wallet YOUR WALLET! it had your credit cards in it AND NOW: someone incredibly ugly (with pimples at the corners of his mouth) is using all your pretty green money to have sex with glamorous prostitutes who can hardly WAIT, while you—so cold, so pitiful—beg in the streets you pick up dirty pennies with your long, yellowed nails OH PLEASE, MISTER, I used to have a lot of money but then I LOST MY WALLET won’t you please help? and the man before you spits at you, says BEAT IT, YOU STUPID, DISEASED HOMELESS PERSON and then you realize that sure, he has boyish good looks but really, he’s the ugly guy who STOLE YOUR WALLET and he used the money to buy a new face, soft and free of blemishes, so you throw yourself at him you tear off his face with your filthy nails and as that wet leathery handful turns into a BRAND-NEW WALLET you smile with your pretty green teeth and scratch at the corners of your mouth

  Nightmare No. 3: Home

  Lock the doors (even the basement door) and pull the shades because the workday’s done and you are HOME and its time to do what you do best: have a little drinky a big drinky THE WHOLE FUCKING BOTTLE and yeah, there’s a thought, slip that bottle right in and then hey, slip a porno movie into the slot—not any machine’s slot, but rather, your own slot, your own secret slot (the one under your arm) and hit PLAY and goodness, you surely love to play (you’re HOME!) and just as you’re getting into the game, with all its lovely toys, you see that the blinds have shot up, the door has blown wide open and all your heavyset, balding (no matter their gender) and so-very-pungent coworkers are standing there, watching you, laughing and whispering to each other, and someone mentions a pink slip—the cretins! can’t they see how special you are?—and you know, perhaps they CAN because then they rush you, wrestle you to the ground and the many too-soft, too-long things they slip into you are indeed quite pink

  Nightmare No. 4: Family

  Mommy (you cry) Why was I born SO FUCKING UGLY? Why does my forehead slant SO FAR BACK? Why do my eyes bug out and why are they SO YELLOW? O Mommy (you whisper) Can’t I just crawl back inside your wet warm tummy-wummy? I wasn’t done yet. And then you hear a wet stomping behind you and suddenly Daddy picks you up and SAYS—actually, Daddy says nothing; he never does; he simply picks you up and pushes your tiny mouth toward the larger of his swollen, hairy, booze-filled breasts, while Mommy smokes another cigarette, applies another fuming layer of makeup, and informs you, quite calmly, that your real parents were a home-ec teacher and a baseball player

  Nightmare No. 5: Face

  Men and women think you are simply gorgeous, and you are: and
gazing into your vanity mirror, you suddenly realize that you’re not sure of your gender; but with a face this stunning, who cares? Lavender eyes, high cheekbones, square white teeth, thick black hair, golden skin that shines. You open your robe of green silk and begin to manipulate the subtle folds and tubes and corrugations that meet your fingers. No other living creature would know what to do with the maze of flesh that is your body: and even now, the utter pleasure has coaxed hundreds of thin chitinous needles to extend from your body; they pierce and suck at your own hands (hands as pale and as white and as damp as fish-bellies); but no matter: you still have that FACE

  What Comes After:

  Five nights of vile dreams, or perhaps one especially vicious quintet of nightmares: it doesn’t matter. Love, security, and identity mean nothing to you now. And that’s the way it should be. You find Fear tiresome; baneful knowledge has turned the world with all its woes into the dreariness sort of amateur theatre production. But you must persist: eat, drink, breathe, make love, go to work. You picture yourself as yet another robot filled with twisted springs and blackened, greasy gears—but oh, you know better. You try to cheer yourself: perhaps you shall pass a car-wreck on the way to the office. Complete your tasks, smile at everyone you meet, and go home. Sit in your easy chair by the window all night (Sleep? What’s that?) and wait: it may take months, years, decades, or maybe just a few minutes, but sure enough, there will come a muffled giggling, followed by a tiny tapping at the glass. At this summons, your skin will split wide open: and hopefully, that part of you which emerges will take just a moment to give a Miss America wave (simply out of courtesy) to this spinning ball of mud and fire

  The Odour Out of the Terrible Old Man

  Take the Pickman Turnpike three miles past the billboard for Squamous &Rugose, Attorneys at Law, then turn left at the Shunned House (the blood-red one where Izakiah Whateley died screaming on that ill-fated Candlemas Night, not the baby-blue one with the cutesy hedgehog lawn ornaments) and follow Highway 8 until you see a little store that sells apple cider—but don’t stop there! Go another half-mile and you will see, on your left, a dark and sinister shack where, during lunar eclipses, mad women have been known to dance madly to the fluting of lurid panpipes from beyond the stars. Drive past all that and turn right at the old stump, onto a little gravel road. Follow that into town and park next to the Civil War cannon with the broken wheel, outside the fire station.