Borderlands 3

by Thomas F. Monteleone (Ed. )

  Another hair.

  Stuck this time half-down his gagging throat; spit-clumsy fingers and Gordon reeled it out: long and dark and slick as surgical silk; unmistakably Sophy's.

  And beside him Andra, roused by his movement, puffy blue eyes and last night's elaborate coif now gone to the dogs and beyond, "What's the matter?" and he reached beneath the pilling blanket to give her breast, big breast, a reassuring squeeze, tried to talk and coughed, gagged again, louder and wetter. On another hair. Wrapped around his tongue.

  "What's the matter?" the balance between annoyance and concern, he shook his head, false cheer, tugged at the hair. It slipped through his fingers, savage tickle at the back of his throat, was he going to puke or what. Feel its curl, floss-like, between his front teeth.

  "Gordon, are you all right?" Plop flop, somehow ludicrous in her concern, would she really give a shit if he choked to death? Of course. Grabbed for the hair again and missed, of course she would, he was projecting again, Sophy's leftover spite like a malignant fog, a big black fart; a long black hair.

  Finally. Wiggling his tongue and grateful for the freedom, regarded the hair with a careful face, a neutral corner. As carefully put it in the wastebasket beside the bed, beside the others.

  "Okay now?" Andra said, and he smiled, touched again those big breasts, self-reassurance this time.

  "I'm fine," he said. "Just absolutely fine."

  ▼

  He drove her back to her car, brand-new Toyota, gutter's reflection on the spill of its insect hood. Carapace. She kissed him twice before she drove away; he managed to conceal the hair in his mouth until she was gone, retching silent the minute it was safe.

  "Damn it," slimy in his touch, rubbing his fingers again and again down the seam of his jeans, new jeans. New jacket, too. New stereo, expensive prints, lots of nice new things. He owed it to himself. A bad time, a harrowing time, escalating carousels of pity and rage until the last one, oh yeah, some ride. And yes, Sophy had had a bad time too, Sophy's time had been so bad she died of it. Was it his fault?

  Stop it, walking faster, get in the car. Drive. Stop for coffee, stop thinking about it, broken windows, the smell and shiver of the room, how she looked when he found her. When she cut herself with scissors. When she cut off all her hair. Stop it, Gordon, his convulsive brushing, wiping at the blood, stop it, she said. You're pulling my hair.

  Finally, aloud, "Stop it!" to himself the only way to interrupt the cycle, yes Sophy, wherever you are, it hurts me too but life has to go on, that's what the shrink said, life's for the living and none of it was my fault. Turning into a coffeeshop, the first place he saw.

  The thick black grind she taught him to favor, slow sip and remembrance, coiled and futile, inescapable. Jealous Sophy and her screech, how he had come to hate that special high-C rant, to circumscribe his activities—innocent; or almost so, he was in a relationship, not a grave—to go in fear, yes, in fear of that sound, building like some diamondpoint tornado, pterodactyl noise aimed straight at his head.

  Such as: Near-morning, later than he planned but not as if he'd stayed out all night. Dry eyes wide-awake, long white legs bare, drawn up and oddly beautiful with tension, "Have a good time?" Already, the sizzle, fingers nervous with rage, twisting her hair.

  Patiently, he always tried for patience, it was never his fault that things always ended up so out of hand. "It was a meeting, Soph." Or, "It kind of turned into a party, not really a party, but—"

  "Forget how to use a telephone? Or were your hands full?"

  Always, couched in those mocking questions, she could make anything sound bad. He always came home to her, didn't he? Even knowing she sat waiting, rehearsing herself flawless for the screaming to come, giving herself all the best lines. Who wanted to come home to that? He was pretty damned loyal, he thought. Considering.

  "If you keep patting yourself on the back," rising now, voice and body scaling, girding, "you might knock yourself over," the whip of her hair as, impatient with battle, she shook the touch of it from her face, as she would shake away his touch, later, much later, lying cold in the conciliatory bed. And in the morning, always: the tears. Patting her back, now, petting her, bringing her long scrolls of toilet paper to blow her nose.

  "Shhhh. Sophy."

  Not penitent, no; but entirely sorry. "I love you, Gordy." Snuggling against him. Wet nose on his chest, for God's sake Sophy, use the tissue. Red wet nose, red eyes, sore with a long night's tantrum and still so hot, stroking the long scarf of hair, wrapping it around his fingers, his wrists, stray hairs gently scattering and her uncertain smile growing bolder as she slid lower, in the bed, all that hair drifting the tensing landscape of his thighs.

  Smile, there in the coffeeshop, if you have to remember at all, remember her that way. Drinking the last of the coffee, slight cough on bitter grounds. He left a big tip.

  Turning his key into the loft's artful disarray, smiling at the pleasing mess of the bed, last night's nest: on impulse he lay, shoes still on, lifting the pillow to track the warm primal scent of Andra's body, holding it against his face to catch instead the iron-dry smell of blood; the itch of hair.

  "Shit," press and jerk of fright and on his feet, cat's cradle around his fingers just as it used to, she always did shed like a dog, petting her hair, tangles of hair like the grass underwater that reaches eyeless and warm, the grass you never see until it touches you.

  The shrink kept saying he was projecting. The shrink knew Sophy only as montage, smiling snapshots, a morgue photograph.

  Washing his hands, over and over, damp fingers on the phone book: Cleaning Services. How much to scour the place, just totally top-to-bottom; today? Fine. Leave the check on the counter. Gone for the day, and why hadn't he thought of this before. Grisly little souvenirs. I bet you think it's funny, Sophy, wherever the hell you are.

  After the errands a movie, just to make sure, sitting through all the credits, deliberate amble to his car. Late, and even in the dark the loft was different, smelled disinfected. Cleansed.

  Leisurely bedtime ritual, brush teeth, strip, set the clock. Clean sheets beneath him. He fell asleep right away.

  ▼

  all that blood

  "Sophy?" his animal whimper

  it's all over, all over her hair, all over his hands and smearing it back from her face, those are scissors, oh Jesus God what she did to herself

  grinning at him

  "I cut my hair, Gordy, like it?"

  ▼

  grabbing for the light, elbow to the clock so it fell, cracking sound and the light went on and he saw it, all of it, rich and matted at the foot of the bed, surreal pet awaiting his regard.

  ▼

  Bundling the blanket, hands shaking, call the fucking cleaning service first thing in the fucking morning, first thing and he did. With empty professional regret, No, of course not, of course if you're certain another crew can be dispatched, and residue of half-hysteria smothered by the light of day, the office sounds around him, coaled down like a fire but burning, still, beneath.

  His hands, shaking on the phone, his first cup of coffee sitting too far to grab. "You can get the key from the building manager," he said. "I want that fucking place cleaned this time, all right?"

  Hang up hard, whacked unwitting his elbow, swore and snatched the coffee. Lukewarm, he drank it anyway, up all night watching the blanket like a kid, certain it was moving, it was—

  Moving like the hairs in the bottom of his coffee cup, slow swirl, unspeakable choreography, he flung the cup against the wall. Picked it up before the office door opened, made a gritty joke, a worse excuse, shut the damn door. Shut the damn door! Go away.

  He bought two Pepsis from the machine in the cafeteria, drank them warm and suspicious. The cleaning service called around one to tell him that a crew had been out to his apartment, and in the future, please inform the service that there was a pet, there is an extra charge for pets.

  ▼

  He didn't want to go hom
e, but he wasn't hungry, didn't want to sit through a movie, anyway he'd have to face it sometime, right? If there was anything concrete to face. Which there wasn't, don't be such an asshole, key in hand and pushing open the door. Are you going to get spooky about a bunch of hair?

  Poised, he realized it, almost tiptoe with apprehension, but a walkthrough showed the apartment was clean. Clean and empty. He drank a glass of ice water (clear liquid, no darknesses to hide in), washed hard in the shower. Disconcerting erection. He called Andra from the bedroom: "How about I visit you this time?" and Andra thought that would be just fine.

  Her apartment smelled like air freshener, room freshener, fake cinnamon in the kitchen and fake orchids in the john. The sheets of her bed were a raveling warm vermilion and he crawled between them like salvation, spread her slack honey thighs and felt beneath his fingers the sweet landscape of hairless skin, smooth and soft and safe.

  ▼

  hair on the blades of the scissors

  her gummy touch, scrabbling for the scissors out of reach and her face, her face

  "Like it?"

  hair stuck to his fingers, bits of it under his nails

  Hands on his shoulders, shouting and he struck at them, saw in the last confusing shreds of nightmare Andra's hands, coated with hair, swarming with hair and he pushed away, she started yelling but oh no, not again, not another screamer and he rolled out of bed and got gone, safe, leaning against the moving solidity of the elevator wall.

  Called in sick. To hell with it. He washed his face in the bathroom at McDonald's, drank two cups of coffee, tried to eat the soggy muffin but found, nestled in its depths like a perfect pearl, a bloody hair.

  Afraid to go home. Afraid to find out, to see. Just like old times, isn't it, Sophy, you cunt, you twat, you dead filthy hairy bitch, screaming in the car and get a grip on yourself! Get some kind of grip on yourself. Get some help. Go home. Call the shrink.

  And tell him what?

  And tell him nothing.

  ▼

  Clear things. Bouillon, and water and vodka, and weak tea, pale enough to see if anything waited inside, moving in the thin spoon-current. Sitting up in bed with an unread magazine, covers pushed a safe distance, the better to see you, my dear. Naked, to catch the drift and creep of hair, last night he had woken from the nightmare (again) to see a sly and messy braid halfway up his unsuspecting thigh, who knew what it was planning to do.

  Hair in the shower, plugging the drain. Hair on doorknobs, the phone, coiled in cups and glasses, smoldering in the microwave. He had given up on restaurants, he had sent back enough food to fill a supermarket, a city of supermarkets, they all thought he was crazy. Hair up his nose, for God's sake, not many but enough, oh yeah, you didn't need many for what she had in mind. It took him long minutes, sweaty minutes, to blow it all the way out, and when he clenched it in the tissue it moved.

  The bouillon was cold again. Tough shit. He put it aside, no hunger left, except of course a hunger for meaning, as in what is your problem, Sophy, smug and dead what is your trouble. No need to ask why me. Slivered ice in the vodka glass, clear glass, good going down because he was cold and it was warm, isn't that funny, iced vodka so warm, down his throat and tickling

  like a hair

  a lot of hair

  and frightened fingers down his throat, jabbing hard for the gag reflex, come on, come on, reeling it up and the vodka bubbling back, swallow it

  struggling into the bathroom, stop it, you're panicking, stop it! Trying for air. Trying for air as all the hair on his body stretched, curling undersea dance, slow and stately mimic as he saw, cloudy in the mirror, the empty bedroom reflected: and a figure, black like thready ropes, like slick necrotic veins, hair in the shape of a woman writhing sweet and ready on the bed.

  Traumatic Descent by Lawrence C. Connolly

  Larry Connolly's short stories have appeared in The Twilight Zone, The Horror Show, The Year's Best Horror Stories, and other magazines and anthologies in both the HDF and SF genres. Two of them have been optioned for film, and one of them, "Echoes," was released in 1990. He's a full-time member of the English Faculty of the Sewickley Academy just outside of Pittsburgh, where he emphasizes his love of writing and the performing arts. His contribution to the current volume is one of the most troubling stories in the book. Connolly's evocations of a being just slightly out of synch with your world are disturbing and unforgettable.

  At last the receptionist returned.

  "Excuse me," said Helen.

  The receptionist began clearing her desk.

  Helen stood. "Miss? Excuse me!"

  The receptionist was one of those big women with brutally masculine features. She turned slowly and stared out through the rectangle of sliding glass that separated the reception office from the waiting room. Helen stared back, trying not to flinch at the sight of the woman's sloping forehead and receding jaw.

  Helen leaned toward the glass. "My appointment was for three o'clock," said Helen.

  The receptionist forced her wrinkled face into a smile. "Sorry," she said. "Dr. Salvador's running late."

  The waiting room clock showed that it was now half-past five. Helen wanted to protest, but, instead, she turned and headed back to the couch.

  Eric looked up from a coverless comic book. "What'd she say, Mom?"

  "A few more minutes," said Helen.

  "Yeah sure!" said Eric. "She told you that an hour ago."

  "Yeah," said Chris. "An hour ago!"

  Helen sat down, reclaiming her place between her fidgety sons.

  "I'm starving!" said Chris.

  "Just a few more minutes," said Helen. She looked across the waiting room and saw that the reception office behind the sliding-glass window was once again silent and still. Helen tried believing that the receptionist had gone to tell Dr. Salvador that he had one more patient waiting. She leaned forward, hoping to hear the far-off rumble of Dr. Salvador's voice, but all she heard was a muffled click, and, with the click, half the lights in the reception office winked out.

  "Looks like they forgot about you," said Eric.

  "Don't be silly, honey. I just talked to the woman; she said a few more minutes."

  "Yeah sure!"

  Helen looked at the boy. In a way, his childish belligerence reassured her. It was familiar behavior, and familiar things were so much easier to deal with. She frowned at Eric and said: "You shouldn't talk back to your mother, Eric."

  "All I said was 'Yeah sure!'"

  "You shouldn't say it," said Helen. "It's disrespectful."

  Eric nodded. "Yeah sure!"

  A shadow moved on the wall beyond the sliding glass of the reception office. Again, Helen got up and approached the window. This time she pushed back the glass and leaned inside.

  The receptionist, now squatting by a file cabinet, turned and looked back at her.

  "I hate to be a pest," said Helen. "But my children are getting tired and—"

  "Try being patient," said the receptionist, and she turned and opened the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. She reached inside and pulled out a pair of large sneakers. As Helen watched, the receptionist removed her dress shoes and placed them in the drawer where the sneakers had been. The woman had incredibly large feet: flat as skillets and nearly as broad; she raised the left one, turning its leathery sole to the window as she pulled on one of the running shoes.

  Helen cleared her throat.

  The receptionist turned from a half-tied shoelace and glared at Helen. "What is it now?"

  "I was just thinking that maybe... if this is a busy time—"

  "It's not a busy time," said the receptionist. "You're the only one here." She grabbed the lace of her second shoe, yanking it taut. "Besides, the appointment book's already closed. I can't cross you off now." The woman knotted the lace and stood up. She took her coat from a brass hook; her arms hissed into the sleeves as she turned her back to Helen. "We did you a favor by squeezing you in," the woman said. "You did say it was an emergency,
didn't you?"

  Helen lowered her eyes. "Yes."

  "Then why in the world would you cancel the appointment?"

  "Sorry," said Helen. She turned away from the mannish woman and reclaimed her place between her androgynous boys.

  "Mom," said Chris. "I gotta take a shit."

  "Don't use that word," said Helen.

  "I gotta poop," said Chris.

  "I'll take him," said Eric.

  "No," said Helen. "No one goes anywhere without me."

  "Not even to the men's room?" said Eric.

  "Not even," said Helen. She looked around the waiting room. The place had looked almost normal two hours ago, but now things were beginning to change again. The chairs looked different, broader and flatter. The end tables were lower, and the magazines...

  (A voice in her head said: "Look at the magazines!")

  She trembled as she looked into the grinning face on a nearby cover of GQ. She pressed her hands between her knees, steadying herself as she said: "I don't want you kids leaving me alone in this office."

  "Why?" said Eric.

  "I don't like the way it looks."

  Eric looked around. "Yeah sure!"

  She was beginning to accept the fact that Eric and Chris didn't see what was happening to the world.

  ("But you see it, don't you, Helen?")

  Yes, she saw the changes, and, if she were seeing things that no one else saw, where did that leave her?

  ("In a psychiatrist's office, right where you belong.")

  "But I'm not crazy," she whispered to the voice in her head.

  ("No? Then why don't your kids see what's happening to the room? Why don't they see what's happening to the faces on the covers of the magazines?")

  Helen glanced again at the magazines on the coffee table. Preppy men in Polo sweaters leered at her with chinless jaws. As she stared, the faces seemed to buckle and twist, growing uglier before her eyes. Helen clenched her fists. Soon the world would be as ugly as it had been yesterday morning, as hideous as it had been when she opened her eyes after a night of fitful sleep to find herself tangled in foul-smelling sheets in a strangely empty bedroom. She had tried running then—running from the stinking bed, from the hollow room, from the cavernous house—and she might still be running if the children hadn't caught up with her, brought her back to the room, and dressed her in the ill-fitting clothes that filled the musty closets. It was strange to think how helpful the children had been.