I kept the kitten in his room while I was at work. When I came home, I let him go out on the enclosed porch, where I would play with him for up to an hour every day. It took some time for me to come up with a good name for him. Finally I decided upon Glove. The color and texture of his strange paw’s skin reminded me of an old pair of suede gloves I’d once lost.
As Glove grew older, his deformed paw started to resemble a little hand. Slender, like that of a child. Sometimes he even used it like a hand, wrapping it around his toys, as though preparing to pick them up. But he didn’t have enough strength in his grip to actually lift anything.
One rainy late afternoon, while Glove was playing, I noticed he had stopped batting around his little toy mouse and was sitting on the window sill. He was staring toward the street, down the hill from my house.
He slowly lifted his deformed paw and pointed out the window with his longest claw. He appeared to be pointing at someone at the bus stop on the corner. The man was flat on the ground, and for a moment I wondered if he was ill or perhaps even dead. Then he quickly scrambled to his feet.
“Who’s that? A friend of yours?” I asked. I didn’t expect a reply, of course. I was very surprised by Glove’s behavior, though, since it seemed so human.
The cat looked at me with his golden eyes, then – still pointing – looked back toward the figure at the bus stop. The figure turned toward us.
It was a very pale young man dressed in black, standing in the rain without an umbrella. Wet locks of his long black hair were plastered against his face. He looked ghastly, like the corpse of someone who had drowned at sea.
A bus pulled up and the doors opened. He stumbled toward it. There seemed to be something wrong with the way he moved. He hopped inside and the door banged shut.
Glove lowered his paw, jumped to the floor and continued to torment his toy mouse.
Later, I called Miranda to tell her what the cat had done. We still talked on the phone every now and then. Sometimes we’d have lunch at our favorite coffee shop, or go see a movie.
“He can point, just like a person?” she said. “I wish I’d seen that. So who was he pointing at?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Some idiot, too stupid to buy an umbrella. You should pay us a visit someday, see how Glove has grown. That funny paw of his looks so much like a hand. Tomorrow’s Saturday. You could stop by around noon. I’ll make you lunch.”
“Tomorrow’s out. I’m going to an estate sale.” She paused, then said, “I know you’re not wild about antiques, but you’re welcome to go with me. Maybe they’ll have some old books.”
“Sure, I’ll go. I don’t have anything else planned.”
She told me she’d pick me up at ten the next morning. I wish I’d said no. But then, I had no way of knowing what was going to happen at that sale. Ultimately, I suppose I was meant to go there.
I was meant to buy that old pine crate filled with dusty, battered hardbound volumes.
I was meant to own The King In Yellow.
Miranda didn’t buy anything at the sale. She was surprised that I’d spent so much on the crate – I hadn’t even looked at all the books inside before buying it.
I have since come to understand that The King In Yellow is a very special book. Actually, it’s probably not even a book – or rather, not just a book. In a way, I think it is alive, in the same way that the Earth is alive.... Teeming with occupants.
Perhaps the book picks who is going to own it. That would explain a lot.
On the way back from the sale, I sat in the back seat of Miranda’s car, where we’d put the crate. I wanted to look at the books inside while she was driving.
“You know,” I said as I sorted through the crate, “I just realized something. I don’t even know who’s sale that was.” I looked into the rear-view mirror to see Miranda’s reflection. She was concentrating on the road, so she didn’t know I was looking at her. She looked especially pretty that day – her olive skin, usually a little sallow, had more of a golden-brown cast to it. A bit of a tan.
“Some rich dead guy,” she said. “His name was Kilbane. He died in a car accident. I hear he drove right into a tree – suicide. I talked to his widow for a few minutes. She’s not doing very well.”
“Emotionally? Financially?” I continued to sort through the books. A few of them were foreign – French, German, Spanish. I couldn’t read any of those languages, so I figured I’d probably donate those books to some library.
“She’s in denial. Doesn’t even think her husband is dead.” She sighed with what I suppose was pity. “She thinks he’s off visiting some place called Carcosa.”
“Never heard of it. Sounds like an island.” That was the moment I lifted up a torn, half-burnt copy of the Bible and saw, just under it, The King In Yellow.
Miranda stopped for a red light. “Why is that guy wet?” she said, pointing out the front window.
“Wet? Who? Where?” I said. I looked to the street corner, and caught a glimpse of someone thin and pale, with wet, serpentine locks of black hair. People seemed to be steering clear of him. Suddenly he hopped on a bus and the door banged shut behind him.
The traffic light turned green and Miranda drove on. I didn’t tell her that the young man looked familiar.
The King In Yellow was filthy – caked with dirt, as though someone had once buried it, or dropped it in mud. “That Kilbane guy didn’t take very good care of his books,” I said. “Most of these books are in awful shape. Well, who knows? Maybe there’s some long-lost goodies in here somewhere.”
“You haven’t changed,” Miranda said. “Always looking for some strange rare treasure. Remember that big box of junk you bought at that yard sale, a couple years back?”
“That was a good deal. There were some really nice silver spoons at the bottom.” Her talk of rarities made me think of Glove. “Speaking of all things unusual, do you want to visit Glove? You haven’t seen him for some time. And you have to drop me off at my place anyway.”
“Sure, why not?” Miranda stopped at another red light. “Why was that guy so wet? It’s not even raining. What’s his story? I can’t stop thinking about him.”
“Probably some weirdo,” I said. I picked up The King In Yellow and tried to open it, but most of the pages were stuck together.
Once we were back at my house, I made some tea for Miranda and coffee for myself. She was impressed by how big Glove had grown, and agreed that his paw looked even more like a hand now.
“It looks like a little boy’s hand,” she said. “A freaky little boy with funny skin.”
I had set The King In Yellow on top of the TV. Miranda saw it and snatched it off. “This book’s got dirt all over it. You’re going to get dirt inside your TV. It’ll get in those ventilation slots.”
“Ventilation?” I looked at the TV more closely. “So that’s what those slots are for. That’s the kind of thing you see but you don’t know what the deal is.”
“Yeah, I think they let the heat out from all the electronic stuff inside.” She’d walked into the bathroom with the book. Suddenly I heard water running in the sink.
“What are you doing?” I called. “You’re not washing that book, are you?”
“Well, yeah. It’s pretty much ruined anyway,” she called back over the light roar and splash of the water. I could hear another roar, too – a loud engine, like that of a bus, somewhere outside.
I was about to see what she was doing when I noticed that Glove had jumped up on a window sill. He raised his hairless paw and pointed through the glass.
I turned my head in the indicated direction and – didn’t have to look far. The wet young man was right outside the window, his black hair plastered in thick, soggy locks on his chalk-white face. His eyes were as yellow as egg-yolks, or perhaps pus. He smiled at me with a mouthful of broken, rotted teeth. Behind him, the sky darkened, but not with night – it was a different sort of shadow. Then his lips ... his hideously thick, pale lips ... began to move, and th
ese words rolled off of his tongue and right into my brain:
“It’s time to visit Carcosa. Lovely Carcosa. Lovely Carcosa.”
Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and thought for just a second that it belonged to Glove, but no, it was Miranda’s. In her other hand she held the book. The wet pages fanned out like impossibly bloated butterfly wings.
“It’s a play,” she said. “A lovely play. Lovely play.”
The room began to slowly fill with mist, the sort of mist that writhes across Lake Haajir, which I’d never seen and yet suddenly knew existed, for he who wears the royal tatters is fond of strolling on the shore and watching the viscous green waters as they lap upon the rocks and bones. I heard the slight creak of the screen-door of the enclosed porch, followed by the louder creak of the door into the house.
Miranda’s words began to mingle with those of the wet young man, so that I couldn’t be sure who was talking: “It’s time to play. See the lovely play. Time for the play in Carcosa. Time for Carcosa to play. Playtime in Carcosa. Lovely Carcosa. Lovely play.”
Not a rich life. Not a full one. That’s all there is to know about me. Glove walked out of the room and I followed him, for what else was there for me to do? Perhaps he was in search of royalty – they do say a cat can look at a King.
I followed him back to his room, with Miranda and the wet young man trailing close behind me, the two of them babbling, completing each other’s sentences. The way to the cat’s room seemed impossibly long – ordinarily my house is very small, but the mists made it seem like it went on forever. By the time we reached the iron doors of that special room, Miranda and the wet young man had perfected their dialogue, like performers rehearsing lines from a play. I think they had needed to dredge the words up from an abyss much deeper than mere memory.
The creak of that looming metal door echoed like thunder, and the cat’s room stretched out before me, as spacious as a ballroom. The walls were draped with red and black curtains, all emblazoned with yellow symbols.
I suddenly noticed a shape standing in the recess of a doorway. It appeared to be a slender man dressed in dark-grey velvet. His golden eyes glowed back in the hollows of their wide sockets – his face was very large and angular.
“Careful, Glove,” I said. “That closet behind you holds a laundry chute. Wouldn’t want you falling in.”
With a well-shaped, beautiful gray hand, the slender man opened the door for me. Then Miranda and the wet young man grabbed me and crammed me down the chute.
I fell and fell and fell through mist ... lovely mist, lovely mist ... until I was very wet indeed. I fell for such a long time that my hair grew into thick, soggy locks. Suddenly I found myself flat on my back. I scrambled to my feet as the bus pulled up to the curb. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw – sitting on a window sill up on a hill – some little grey thing pointing at me. Then the bus door flew open and the driver beckoned for me, yellow tatters flapping from his arm.
Not a rich life. Not a full one. But better than nothing at all.
I hopped on board and the door banged shut.
Mrs. Dakhamunzu
by Mark McLaughlin
Seth Kendall quickly ran a finger over his front teeth, checking for bits of hors d’oeuvres. Across the room, Maggie had finally snagged the petite widow Dakhamunzu and was leading the withered culture vulture his way.
Seth took another sip of his Manhattan. By the bar, a pair of platinum blonde models – one vaguely Nordic, the other definitely Asian – smiled at him, giggling. He looked past them to the glass doors of the balcony. The moonlit cityscape beyond was so beautiful. And so very expensive.
Maggie was leading the widow a bit too enthusiastically. With each step, the silver-haired crone’s many gold bracelets jangled. Seth finished his drink and enjoyed the only dessert he ever allowed himself: the cherry at the bottom of the glass.
“Mrs. Dakhamunzu, I’d like you to meet my brother Seth.” She winked over the old woman’s shoulder. “Seth, this is Mrs. Dakhamunzu. We were having the most delightful conversation about Egyptian cuisine.”
“No need for sssuch formalities,” the crone hissed between bone-white teeth as square as sugar cubes. “Call me Sssabah. It means ‘born in the morning.’ Ssseth, you’re just as handsome as your sssister sssaid you were.”
Seth was dumbfounded. The old gal either had a wretched accent or the worst-fitting dentures in the world. She was a tiny, fine-boned thing: she couldn’t have weighed more than eighty-five pounds.
“Oh, there’s Candice! Candy!” Maggie waved to an imaginary friend at the other side of the penthouse. “Seth, could you entertain Sabah for a moment?”
“Certainly.” Seth beckoned to a passing waitress. “What are you drinking, Sabah?”
The old woman swirled the ice in her glass. “Vanilla vodka, thank you.”
Seth ordered more drinks and led Sabah to a table. He took a moment to study her high cheekbones, hooked nose, slanted black eyes, and dark, riotously wrinkled flesh. She was certainly striking, like a wax museum statue of an ancient Egyptian queen.
They talked for quite a while and Seth had to admit, Mrs. Dakhamunzu was awfully clever. Much more clever than Mrs. Dupree. Or Mrs. Voorhees. Or Countess Pontini. Or Señora Valdez. Or … what was the name of that Slavic princess with the clubfoot…?
“Ssseth darling, I know a lovely little ressstaurant where the duck in pomegranate sssauce is a delight. My treat.” Sabah bared her enormous teeth. Seth smiled back.
- - -
“So how’s it going with Sabah?” Maggie tucked gently at Seth’s thick brown chest hair. “She ought to get different dentures. She looks like she could eat an apple from across the room.”
Seth reached for the glass of carrot juice on the nightstand. He rarely drank alcohol at home. Overindulgence would soon etch fine lines around his long-lashed blue eyes. “Believe it or not, those are her real teeth. She drew blood while she was flossing at the restaurant.”
Maggie wrinkled her nose. “Flossing at the table? Those rich bitches have the worst manners. And the worst taste. Did you see that necklace she was wearing?”
“The one with the rocks of all sizes? Sabah said they represented the planets. Jupiter is almost as big as a golf ball.”
Maggie stared up into the mirror above Seth’s bed. “I’m getting fat from all the pâté at these cocktail parties. My hips are almost as bad as my sister Missy’s.”
Seth pinched her lightly. “You’re getting a little chubby, but don’t worry about it. After looking at lizard-hips Sabah, it’s nice to see a woman with some meat on her bones.”
“Will you still love me when I’m as old as she is?”
“Sure, if you’re as rich as she is. Oh, don’t pout – I’m just teasing. Hey, I’ve got a present for you.” He picked his pants off the floor and after a moment’s rummaging through the pockets, pulled out a small gold ring. “Sabah’s pinky ring. Slipped it right off her bony little finger. Be sure not to wear it in front of her.”
Maggie inspected the ring. “It looks like some kind of snake. Maybe a cobra. It has a flattened area around the chest area … if snakes have chests.”
- - -
The next evening, Mrs. Dakhamunzu gave Seth a small gold figurine of a cat while they enjoyed a steak dinner at the Ambassador.
“It’s from Egypt,” she said. “I have loads of delightful wonders from Egypt. I have ssspent much time there. But I do like to travel and make new friends. Like you!” She tapped the cat figurine on its shiny nose. “This little bauble – I thought it would amuse you, and bring you luck and long life.”
“Luck I can understand,” Seth said. “Solid gold is always lucky. But long life? How’s that work?”
“This little ssstatue is a representation of Bassstet, the warrior goddess. She will protect you from anything that might end your life.” Saban popped a small chunk of steak in her mouth and chewed vigorously.
Seth thought for a moment. “Yes, you have somethin
g there! If you want to live a long time, you have to ward off anything that can kill you, like wild animals and diseases.”
“Indeed!” Sabah grinned hugely. “Of course, there’s much more to longevity than that. Certainly, one must put in the right fuel and maintain healthy habits. And ssstay away from falling anvils, like in old cartoons! But there are other measures that can be employed. The sssorcerers of ancient Egypt, they know far more about longevity than modern folks. Sssomeday, perhaps, I will share more of that knowledge with you.”
“They must know quite a lot,” Seth said. “You referred to them in the present tense.”
“Did I? How sssilly of me.” She took a healthy swig from her glass of vanilla vodka. “At any rate, they’re not in ancient Egypt anymore. They’re tucked away sssafe and sssound in Egyptica.”
Seth wanted to ask what and where Egyptica was, but he was afraid that he might reveal a shameful level of ignorance. He only had a high-school diploma: his looks had always made up for his lack of a higher education. Fortunately, the conversation switched to a new topic … what they might like for dessert.
- - -
“Egyptica?” Maggie shrugged. “Never heard of it. Maybe it’s some smaller part of Egypt.”
“That could be.” Seth turned the hot tap with his foot – his bath water was starting to cool. “So why exactly is Sabah is so stinking filthy rich? Where’d she get all her money?”
“Death, basically.” Maggie sat on the edge of the tub, champagne glass in one hand and a cracker topped with smoked salmon in the other. “About fifty years ago, she ran a chain of funeral parlors in England. I haven’t been able to find out anything about her life before that. I do know that back then, there was a Mr. Dakhamunzu, but he was hit by a taxi and she never remarried.”
The Blasphemy In The Canopic Jar & More Tales Of The Cthulhu Mythos Page 2
