Nightingale Songs

by Strantzas, Simon

  Afterward, he felt much better, much more alive. It was amazing how quickly he took to having all the accouterments around, yet he could already feel what Richard was rebelling against. This was Michael's second day in his brand-new home, and other than set up the television he had done precious little. He felt restless, and when he looked in the bathroom mirror he could have sworn his face had a greasy sheen to match the greasy taste in his mouth. If he wasn't careful, Michael was going to fall into the same trap as Richard, but he wasn't sure he'd have the same strength to break free. He decided instead to be proactive and turn the giant screen off.

  When he did, the high-pitched whine in his ears ceased, and he heard the rustling of the world again. He walked to his kitchen window and looked out at his neighbor’s house. The old man still sat in front of his tiny television, looking as though he'd not yet moved. The man had no doubt grown old in front of his set while the world passed him by. It was sad, Michael supposed, and he hoped there was at least someone who might visit him -- anything that might prove a distraction from that pale blue light.

  Michael made himself some coffee and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, only to find the package empty. He couldn't recall smoking the last of them the night before, but he must have. Grumbling, already behind on his unpacking, he put on his shoes and went looking for a store.

  He didn't have to travel far. Somehow he'd missed it the night before, but just around the corner from his new home stood a large gas station. No doubt its store would sell what he needed.

  The parking lot was empty, and when Michael stepped through the glass door, he heard a small chime yet saw no customers.

  "Can I help you?"

  The attendant behind the counter appeared tired. He was tall and lean, with pepper hair and a glaring face that looked as though he'd taken his tools to it. Above his head was a small television playing a low-rent talk show, and Michael found it hard to resist the tiny, blurry screen.

  He shut his eyes and turned away. "Can I get a pack of unfiltered regulars?"

  He heard nothing for a few moments, but when he opened his eyes the cigarettes were on the counter and the attendant had returned to his chair and resumed watching his small television set.

  "Thank you," Michael said, and left money on the counter. When he turned to leave, the man looked over from his television.

  "So you're the new one in the Jungle?"

  "Yes. I just moved in."

  "If you say so." He shrugged, then turned back to bathe in the blue light of the changing channel.

  Michael returned home and tried to use the remains of his day to finish unpacking, but didn't get further than mid-afternoon. While he was taking a break to smoke a cigarette, the telephone rang. At first he didn't want to answer it; something about the sound was wrong, but it would not stop ringing. Michael put his cigarette out and picked up the receiver. All he heard was heavy breathing.

  "Hello?"

  "Mike? It's Rich. Um. . . . What are you doing? Are you watching television?"

  "No, I'm unpacking."

  There was a pause, and Michael could hear the connection crackle, threatening to go out. He had to concentrate to hear what came next. "Can you come over?"

  "Why? Are you still bored?" Michael smiled as he said it, but grew uneasy with only static in response. "I would, but I need to get this house unpacked. I'm not even sure where all my food is."

  "Oh, okay. I --" There was a crash on the line, and Michael wondered if it was indeed static or something else entirely. Richard sounded frightened, whatever it was. "Michael, there's something going on over here."

  "What's that noise?"

  "I can't explain it. You need to come over. Ever since --"

  A sound, as though the air around Michael had cracked, shook the room, and the telephone, along with everything else, died. The world was silent, until further, quieter cracks followed from somewhere at the rear of the house. Richard was immediately forgotten as Michael ran to the back door and looked through its window.

  It was not the air that had split, but instead the old misshapen tree. It had snapped along the base of its trunk and pitched forward across the dried yard. The wires that had been tangled in its amputated limbs remained, though pulled free they sparked and sizzled. Michael had lost all his power.

  He went into the backyard to see what had happened, careful to avoid the crackling wires. He was lucky; the tree had missed the house by mere inches when it fell. But he couldn't fathom what had caused it to snap. He remembered putting his weight on it the day before. Had that weakened it?

  He looked, but could see no sign of what might have brought down the tree. The only person visible from where he stood was his old neighbor, who didn't notice the near destruction that had occurred so close.

  Then, Michael saw what must have been the true culprits. From the tree's uneven wound a thick wave of large ants emerged, as though released from a hollow in the pith. They were dark black with burnt red thoraxes and they skittered across the felled tree, inspecting the damage with their heavy mandibles. He expected them to scatter, but instead, one by one, they returned to the hollow from which they were born, bound by some force of nature to that dead place. He shook his head. How cold the world was sometimes. Their fates were already decided; they were programmed to carry it out. If only they were able to think beyond it -- perhaps then they might find a way to escape.

  Michael brushed his hands and stood. He would have to call the power company to rewire the house, and someone else to remove the dead tree from the yard, but he no longer had a working telephone to do either. Already, the afternoon light was threatening to fade, and he began to worry about Richard and how he had sounded earlier. Perhaps it was best if Michael went to him right away. From there, he could make his call to the power company, then discover what he had heard on the telephone just before the line went dead. They weren't words, but something very much the same.

  Yet when he arrived at Richard's house a half hour later, no one answered the door. A noise emanated from the backyard, and Michael couldn't be sure if it was caused by his friend or by the wind howling through the trees.

  "Richard?" he called and made his way around the side of the house in the dimming light. "Richard? I need to use your phone."

  The backyard, though, was empty and the garden in ruins -- plants were shredded and large divots were ripped from the lawn. He heard what sounded like a faint and rasping laughter coming from somewhere, though he couldn't pinpoint the source.

  He walked back around the house to the front and pounded on the door. "Richard, are you in there?" He heard his knock echo, though the sound was slightly off. He tried again, "Are you there?"

  He tossed his cigarette aside, then cupped his hands and looked in the window. He couldn't see anything clearly, but it appeared that the same destruction that had happened in the yard had taken place inside. Potted plants were thrown around, and the mat he had sat upon the night before was curled up at the side of the room. There was something else in the middle of the floor, something else that must have been toppled, but in the creeping night he didn't recognize the mass. Whatever it was, it looked broken and misshapen. All around it were dark marks on the floor, each the size of a fist, which swirled and circled the fallen debris. Michael knocked once more, but nothing happened.

  The noises were getting louder as the darkness began to settle on the world. The house on Benman Boulevard seemed to recede with every moment that passed, and he walked towards it as fast as he could, though it still didn't seem fast enough. The sound of aluminum trashcans and plastic barrels being knocked over in the distance and the noise of pets howling and crying followed right behind him, but when he turned he saw nothing other than the odd misplaced shadow. Yet, the footsteps behind came from somewhere -- soft padded footsteps that grew faster and louder as they came upon him. He increased his pace while his eyes searched for escape.

  Up ahead, he saw the tiny gas station he had visited earlie
r that day. Its lights were like a beacon in the falling night, but as Michael approached he saw those lights were dimmer than they should have been. Behind him the sounds of pursuit had lessened, and then disappeared, yet when he tried the door of the station he found it locked.

  Michael could see the attendant was still inside watching his tiny television, yet he would not move until Michael's knocking became a pounding upon the glass door. The attendant stood and walked carefully to the door. His eyes darted past Michael uneasily as he stared through the reinforced window.

  "We're closed." He pointed to a small sign.

  "I need your help."

  "We're closed!"

  "Please, you've got to let me in."

  With those words, the attendant stepped back, and for a moment Michael thought he might unlock the door. Instead, he leaned toward the glass until he was less than an inch from it, and through clenched teeth he seethed, "We are closed!"

  Without further word, he returned to his chair and turned up the volume of his television.

  Michael turned around. It was no use. The street ahead of him was an endless line of tiny blue lights, little televisions broadcasting to hundreds of staring eyes. A sound like a bottle skittering across the street startled him, and before he realized it he was running the rest of the distance home.

  He didn't hear any further noises beyond the hum of the electric wires above him, and snippets of what those in the Ben Jungle were watching. All the same, when he reached his house, out of breath, his fingers shook as he fumbled the key from his pocket and then inserted it into the front door lock. It took a moment too long for it to open, but once done he wasted no time shutting and locking the door behind him.

  He went to the front window and parted the curtains an inch, but there was nothing out there that might have followed him. He was safe, finally. But he would feel much safer if he only had power. He tried the switches again, although he knew what the result would be. He was trapped in his home until daybreak. At that time, he would contact the power company from the gas station and have them repair the line. Perhaps Richard would be home by then and agree to wait with him.

  Until then, he would have to make do. He lit a cigarette in hopes that it would calm him, and then went to the kitchen to find his flashlight. It was in the second box he tried, and the little circle of light helped keep him from losing his sanity. He looked to the kitchen window again and saw his neighbor still watching television, but the sight of the man was blurred, and Michael realized there was something on the glass, some sort of grime smeared across it, looking much like Richard's windows had the night before. The sight filled Michael with nervous dread. He exhaled a dark cloud.

  Then the noise resumed, but had become a high-pitched chatter, like an audiotape running through its reels. It came from the rear of the house. He slowly crept to the back door and peered through its window, but there was only darkness to see -- darkness with vague shadowy figures running through it like wisps. They resembled people gathering in his backyard, and he took the flashlight and held it flush against the glass, but the shapes were too dark, too vague in the night. He tried to squint for a better view, pressing up against the glass, and then shone his flashlight as accurately as possible at the thing closest to him.

  It shrank from the light, and then made another horrible screech. It was unclear what the creature was -- the flashlight was not powerful enough to disperse the shadows collected around it -- but it was the size of a large dog on its haunches. Its head looked pale, set in a collar of fur, and it moved with jerking motions as it avoided the flashlight's beam. Then, it turned toward Michael, and charged with frightening speed.

  Michael did not have time to pull away from the window before the thing was face-to-face with him, only a thin layer of glass between them. It looked almost human, but grossly distorted -- its mouth hung loose and its eyes were like black glass beads, and yet, it seemed strangely familiar. It bared numerous small pointed teeth, fogging the window with breath, and Michael fell back screaming, the cigarette dropping from his mouth.

  The curtains ignited instantly, and he tried to step forward but the fire spread too fast. Behind the flames, the creature continued to scream and pound on the window, and Michael heard more chattering, and the sound of something -- of more than one something -- moving impossibly quick along the side of the house while the flames spread around him.

  He ran to the living room, the smoke stinging his eyes, but he saw there silhouetted behind the curtains more of the creatures. They covered the windows, attempting to force their way in. The front door suffered a continual pounding, as if something were being thrown against it. Michael backed slowly into the kitchen, coughing as flames licked the walls and leapt to the television. The screen grew bright, and then the tube imploded like a gunshot. The chattering only became angrier. Michael did not know what to do.

  Beyond the flames and the bubbling walls and the creatures beating at the kitchen window he saw the old man next door, bathed in the pale glow of his television. He seemed oblivious to everything around him.

  Then, suddenly it was as if the old man did notice what was happening. He stood and walked over to the window that faced Michael's burning home. Michael watched him through smears made by small clawing hands. The old man stood there, remote in hand, and squinted, looking right at Michael. Then, irritated, he shook his head and returned to his seat.

  Michael's lungs burned, and his stinging eyes watered. The sound of the flames was now all he could hear while he watched many long arms beating against the glass in slow motion. When the first cracks appeared, Michael screamed for help. He screamed for as long as he could before his burning throat failed. Then he fell to the ground sobbing, and over the sound of his rasps he heard wood breaking, the frame of the back door shattering. And then that of the front door followed.

  Michael took his last burning breath while he watched his neighbor turn up the volume on the remote to block out the sound of the rest of the world.

  AN INDELIBLE STAIN UPON THE SKY

  I walk the shoreline as I did ten years ago but everything has changed. The intervening decade has not been long enough for wounds to heal; everywhere I look I see the scars of what's been done. It all looks dead, covered in a thin viscous layer of regret.

  The name is infamous even now. The oil tanker Madison, one thousand feet long and one-sixth that wide, ran ashore on the reef not twelve miles from where I stand, and the sharp coral sliced through its two hulls as though they were made of paper. From that long gash flowed the darkest, most vile blood into McCarthy Sound, and it spread faster than any estimate could predict. It raced toward the shore, hungry for life to feed on, and it took all birds and fishes and animals in its way until their deaths numbered into the thousands. Everything it touched withered and died, and then it took the life of Port McCarthy, the once peaceful town that could do nothing but watch itself succumb.

  Suzanne and I had been there only a few months earlier, when everything seemed as though it would remain beautiful forever. It was still early June, when the days stretch their longest and we had nothing but warm weather to look forward to. We had by then only been together a short while, yet like the summer I could only see happiness laid before us, mapped out across the white sands of the beach. It's strange now to remember; the accident was so close, and in hindsight I can see the ripples it sent backwards through time, yet I was too ignorant to recognize them for what they were. Portents of change, and what they promised has haunted me every day since.

  We had driven half a day to reach the small town, sent on the recommendation of a close friend. Suzanne wore a straw hat, and through its wide woven brim a checkerboard of light dappled her soft face and filled her eyes with something akin to a sparkle every time she looked at me. Her laugh made me in turn laugh, and I still recall the sight of her newly shaven legs rubbing against one another and the feeling of absolute happiness it brought me. Were I somehow able to have frozen that moment, I would
gladly have spent my remaining life there, wrapped in that beatific feeling of joy. That is the worst of the hauntings: the reminders of what I shall never again have.

  The Port McCarthy that lies before me now is overcast, and I must work to remember that this is due to the shorter late autumn days and not that the oil has stained the sky.

  I check myself into the Windhaven Inn, the same place where Suzanne and I stayed those many years ago. I must admit I'm surprised it's still there and doing business, but one step inside shows me that it has hung on only by the thinnest of threads. The smiling woman who greeted us a decade ago is nowhere to be seen. Instead, in her place, a girl no more than sixteen, her faded black clothes stretched over her thick body, coils of seeping tattoos wrapped around her arms. I notice her pierced tongue as she speaks to me, and the words leave me feeling cold and wet.

  "I've a reservation," I tell her. "For the weekend."

  "Sign here," she says, and I see her chipped nails are painted a matching dull black as she points to an empty space in the smudged guest book. I take the pen and try to sign my name, but after more than two attempts the ink still refuses to run. She takes the pen from me wordlessly and dabs it on her studded tongue. When she hands it back it works, but the ink it dispenses is clotted and old.

  I follow her upstairs, carrying my small leather bag over my shoulder. I make the mistake of touching the banister and my hand comes away feeling sticky. I try to discreetly rub it clean on the leg of my trousers, but instead stain them as well. When I ask after the woman I'd seen there years before, the young girl explains that she is that woman's daughter, and hints that the Madison spill changed her mother in inexplicable ways, ways impossible to come back from. My smile is weak as I look away though I don't know if it's because of the girl's mother or the mother's child. The young girl gives me a half-hearted tour of the inn, her well-practiced voice unable to disguise her boredom. She takes me down a corridor and along its length I see three other bedrooms. Only one door is ajar however, and I try to glance in while we pass but the gap is too narrow and the girl has guided me too quickly to catch more than a fleeting glimpse of something dark and wet seeping across the floor.