Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992)

by David G. Hartwell (Ed. )

  I went back into the living room. Father was still

  watching his football game. His bottle was empty. I

  emptied his urine bag, refilled the bottle with beer,

  added four Librium. He was still half-awake when he

  finished the bottle, though he was passing out fast, so I

  gave him three more Librium by telling them they were

  vitamins he was supposed to take. He was too groggy to

  wonder why I wanted him to take them.

  I went back to the bathroom and filled the tub two-

  thirds full of water. With him in it it would be all the way

  full. Then I pushed his wheelchair into the bathroom and

  got him out of it into the tub the way I always did.

  The duck stayed down at the other end of the tub, away

  from him.

  406

  Scott Baker

  I pulled the skylight curtains closed, went outside and

  shut the shutters. Not all the way, just enough to cut

  down the light like it was a cloudy day. I didn’t look, just

  walked around the yard looking up at the sky, out at the

  fences, over them to the neighbor’s houses, anywhere but

  at the bathroom windows.

  Then I closed the shutters completely but I still didn’t

  look in through them. I went back inside the house,

  turned off the television, turned it back on, walked

  around, finally opened the bathroom door and turned on

  the light so I could see what had happened.

  The bottom of the tub was covered with red-brown

  mud. The log was half-buried in it.

  I pulled the plug, watched the sludge drain out of the

  tub. I kept the water running a lot longer to make sure

  the drain wasn’t going to get plugged up, then pushed the

  log under the running water so I could clean the last of

  the sludge off it. When it was clean I picked it up and put

  it in the sack again, then took the sack and hid it out

  under the floorboards of the shed.

  I poured some Draino down the hole to make sure

  nothing got clogged up and washed the tub with cleanser,

  then put the wheelchair and the urine bottle and all of

  Father’s clothes back in the living room and turned the

  TV on. There was another football game going, a replay

  of some sort of championship from a few years back.

  I called up Beth and asked her if I could come over and

  go swimming with her for a while. She said yes. We swam

  for a while and then I said maybe it would be a good idea

  if we went back down to my house, I had some money

  back there and we could buy some ice cream or maybe go

  get some hamburgers at McDonald’s, and anyway I still

  owed her for that time she’d bought me milk and given

  me half her sandwich.

  So we rode our bikes back down to my house and when

  we found Father gone I called Sergeant Crowder and told

  him I was scared, Father was gone but his wheelchair was

  still there and I didn’t know what had happened to him,

  The Lurking Duck

  407

  whether they’d taken him to the hospital or somebody’d

  kidnapped him or what.

  He said he’d send somebody right over.

  Ju lie : 1 9 9 1

  That was three years ago. I’m fourteen now. A year after

  Father disappeared Mother married Don but even without Father to take care of she was as bad as ever, maybe even worse, and he divorced her less than a year later.

  The duck’s still back under the shed and it still works— I

  took it out to check it a little over a week ago, when

  Mother was gone for a weekend somewhere, and it

  turned from a log back into a duck in the morning and

  then back from a duck into a log when it got dark out. So

  I can use it on Mother whenever I want. It would be

  better if I could wait two years but I don’t think I can

  stand it that much longer. It might be better just to have

  them put me in a foster home for a year or two.

  And anyway, I don’t know if I can wait any longer at

  all, now. Three weeks ago Judge Hapgood disappeared

  and a week ago Thom Homart, the one that wrote those

  articles in the RAG that Dubic’s lawyers sued them for,

  also disappeared. And The Forbidden City— the Chinese restaurant that changed their name from The Ivory Pagoda after they were convicted of buying sea gulls and

  cats from Dubic ten years ago— burned down and its

  owner died in the fire just last week.

  I’ve been going down to the lake to feed the ducks

  almost every day now since Father disappeared. It’s not

  so much that I’ve learned to like them or anything,

  though I guess I like them a lot better than I used to, but

  just that I wanted to be there watching in case another

  robot duck like my mallard ever appeared.

  There’s another one there now. A mallard, but a

  female this time, brown with black speckle-marks with

  bright blue on its sides— what the bird books call its

  408

  Scott Baker

  mirror or speculum— and an orange and brown bill. It’s

  been there almost a month. And every day now, for just a

  little over a month and a half, a skinny middle-aged man

  comes down to sit on a bench and watch the ducks. He

  comes down early in the morning and he never leaves

  until dark and he never, never feeds the ducks or swans

  or pigeons, even though he spends all day watching them.

  Mother tells me that James Patrick Dubic was released

  from prison three months ago. So that has to be him,

  down there watching his robot killing the ducks he can’t

  kill for himself anymore. I don’t know what he thinks

  happened to his other robot.

  And while he’s sitting there on his bench watching the

  ducks, or maybe at night after he drives away, he’s killing

  all the people who helped put him in jail. I don’t know

  how, maybe with a robot person or taxicab or something

  else that works just like the ducks.

  Mother’s one of those people, so if he gets to her before

  I do he’ll save me a lot of trouble and I won’t have to

  worry about getting caught. And in a way it’s a good

  thing to know that if I don’t get her he’ll get her for me

  for sure.

  But the thing is, I’m another one of the people who

  helped put him in jail. Maybe even the main person,

  except for Mother, especially, if you believe what all the

  newspaper articles they wrote about me said. And from

  the way the skinny man watches me sometimes when I’m

  feeding the ducks I’m sure he knows who I am and that

  he’s watching me.

  But he’s too smart to try to get us all at the same time,

  at least not unless he’s figured out enough different ways

  to kill us all so that nobody’ll see the connection between

  all our deaths. So he’s probably going to want to wait a

  while before he tries to get me or Mother. And I’ve still

  got his duck, and I’ve spent years now thinking about the

  best ways to use it.

  So I think what I’m going to do is put a lot of the

  Librium I had after Father disappeared in Mother’s

&nb
sp; The Lurking Duck

  409

  whisky glass tonight if she’s alone, or tomorrow night or

  the night after if she’s not, so that she’ll still be knocked

  out the next morning when it’s light enough out for me to

  get her into the bathtub with the duck. Only this time it

  won’t be like Father and I want to watch it all happen.

  And then that same evening when the sun’s going

  down and before Dubic has a chance to find out about

  Mother I’ll take the duck down to the park and watch it

  jump on him and cut his head off with its scissors.

  I’ve got it all figured out and I’m not really scared at

  all.

  This time it’s going to be fun.

  Thomas Ligotti (b. 1959)

  Notes o n the Writing o r Horror:

  A S tory

  Thomas Ligotti is the most startling and talented horror

  w riter to em erge in recent years. Exclusively a short story

  w riter thus far in his career, he published all of his early

  stories in semiprofessional and small press genre magazines for several years, remaining obscure. An American writer, his first trade collection of stories, Songs of a Dead

  Dreamer (1990), was published in England, the result of a

  gradually growing reputation among the avid genre readers. His second collection. Grimscribe (1991), was^published at the end of 1991. Perhaps the most startling thing

  about his work, aside from the extraordinary stylistic

  sophistication (one is reminded of the polished prose and

  effects of Robert Aickman’s strange stories), is his devotion to horror, which is positively Lovecraftian— as is his bent for theory and knowledge of the history of the

  literature. This present piece selected is his masterpiece to

  date. “ Few other writers,” says Ramsey Campbell, “could

  conceive a horror story in the form of notes on the writing

  of the genre, and I can't think of any other w riter who could

  have brought it off." It is no less than an instructional essay

  on the writing of horror, transformed by stylistic magic and

  artful construction into a powerful work of fiction. Writing

  students I have taught have found it a revelation. It is

  included for your delight and instruction.

  Notes on the Writing o f Horror: A Story

  411

  For much too long I have been promising to formulate

  my views on the writing of supernatural horror tales.

  Until now I just haven’t had the time. Why not? I was too

  busy churning out the leetle darlings. But many people,

  for whatever reasons, would like to be writers of horror

  tales, I know this. Fortunately, the present moment is a

  convenient one for me to share my knowledge and

  experience regarding this special literary vocation. Well,

  I guess I’m ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s get it over with.

  The way I plan to proceed is quite simple. First, I’m

  going to sketch out the basic plot, characters, and various

  other features of a short horror story. Next, I will offer

  suggestions on how these raw elements may be treated in

  a few of the major styles which horror writers have

  exploited over the years. Each style is different and has

  its own little tricks. This approach will serve as an aid in

  deciding which style is the right one and for whom. And

  if all goes well, the novitiate teller of terror tales will be

  saved much time and agony discovering such things for

  himself. We’ll pause at certain spots along the way to

  examine specific details, make highly biased evaluations,

  submit general commentary on the philosophy of horror

  fiction, and so forth.

  At this point it’s only fair to state that the following

  sample story, or rather its rough outline form, is not one

  that appears in the published works of Gerald K. Riggers, nor will it ever appear. Frankly, for reasons we’ll explore a little later, I just couldn’t find a way to tell this

  one that really satisfied me. Such things happen. (Perhaps farther down the line we’ll analyze these extreme cases of irreparable failure, perhaps not.) Nevertheless

  the unfinished state of this story does not preclude using

  it as a perfectly fit display model to demonstrate how

  horror writers do what they do. Good. Here it is, then, as

  told in my own words. A couple-three paragraphs, at

  most.

  412

  Thomas Ligotti

  T he S to ry ________

  A thirtyish but still quite youthful man, let’s name him

  Nathan, has a date with a girl whom he deeply wishes to

  impress. Toward this end, a minor role is to be played by

  an impressive new pair of trousers he intends to find and

  purchase. A few obstacles materialize along the way,

  petty but frustrating bad luck, before he finally manages

  to secure the exact trousers he needs and at an extremely

  fair price. They are exceptional in their tailoring, this is

  quite plain. So far, so good. Profoundly good, to be sure,

  since Nathan intensely believes that one’s personal possessions should themselves possess a certain substance, a certain quality. For example, Nathan’s winter overcoat

  is the same one his father wore for thirty winters;

  Nathan’s wristwatch is the same one his grandfather

  wore going on four decades, in all seasons. For Nathan,

  peculiar essences inhere in certain items of apparel, not

  to mention certain other articles small and large, certain

  happenings in time and space, certain people, and

  certain notions. In Nathan’s view, yes, every facet of

  one’s life should shine with these essences which alone

  make things really real. What are they? Nathan, over a

  period of time, has narrowed the essential elements

  down to three: something magic, something timeless,

  something profound. Though the world around him is

  for the most part lacking in these special ingredients, he

  perceives his own life to contain them in fluctuating but

  usually acceptable quantities. His new trousers certainly

  do; and Nathan hopes, for the first time in his life, that a

  future romance— to be conducted with one Loma

  McFickel— will too.

  So far, so good. Luckwise. Until the night of Nathan’s

  first date. Miss McFickel resides in a respectable suburb

  but, in relation to where Nathan lives, she is clear across

  one of the most dangerous sectors of the city. No

  problem: Nathan’s ten-year-old car is in mint condition,

  Notes on the Writing o f Horror: A Story

  413

  top form. If he just keeps the doors locked and the

  windows rolled up, everything will be fine. Worst luck,

  broken bottles on a broken street, and a flat tire. Nathan

  curbs the car. He takes off his grandfather’s watch and

  locks it in the glove compartment; he takes off his

  father’s overcoat, folds it up neatly, and snuggles it into

  the shadows beneath the dashboard. As far as the

  trousers are concerned, he would simply have to exercise

  great care while attempting to change his flat tire in

  record time, and in a part of town known as Hope’s Back

  Door. With any luck, the trousers would retain their

  t
riple traits of magicality, timelessness, and profundity.

  Now, all the while Nathan is fixing the tire, his legs feel

  stranger and stranger. He could have attributed this to

  the physical labor he was performing in a pair of trousers

  not exactly designed for such abuse, but he would have

  just been fooling himself. For Nathan remembers his legs

  feeling strange, though less noticeably so, when he first

  tried on the trousers at home. Strange how? Strange as in

  a little stiff, and even then some. A little funny. Nonsense, he’s just nervous about his date with lovely Loma McFickel.

  To make matters worse, two kids are now standing by

  and watching Nathan change the tire, two kids who look

  like they recently popped up from a bottomless ash pit.

  Nathan tries to ignore them, but he succeeds a little too

  well in this. Unseen by him, one of the kids edges toward

  the car and opens the front door. Worst luck, Nathan

  forgot to lock it. The kid lays his hands on Nathan’s

  father’s coat, and then both kids disappear into a rundown apartment house.

  Very quickly now. Nathan chases the kids into what

  turns out to be a condemned building, and he falls down

  the stairs leading to a lightless basement. It’s not that the

  stairs were rotten, no. It is that Nathan’s legs have finally

  given out; they just won’t work anywhere. They are very

  stiff and feel funnier than ever. And not only his legs, but

  414

  Thomas Ligotti

  his entire body below the w aist. . . except, for some

  reason, his ankles and feet. They’re fine. For the problem

  is not with Nathan himself. It’s with those pants of his.

  The following is why. A few days before Nathan purchased the pants, they were returned to the store for a cash refund. The woman returning them claimed that

  her husband didn’t like the way they felt. She lied.

  Actually, her husband couldn’t have cared less how the

  pants felt, since he’d collapsed from a long-standing

  heart ailment not long after trying them on. And with no

  one home to offer him aid, he died. It was only after he

  had lain several hours dead in those beautiful trousers

  that his unloving wife came home and, trying to salvage

  what she could from the tragedy, put her husband into

  a pair of old dungarees before making another move.