The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories

by Jeff Vandermeer; Ann Vandermeer

  ‘He was the one who took the picture of you, wasn’t he? The picture of you and Flat Diane.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ian considered the envelope that had contained the latest atrocity. The postmark was from Seattle. Stan Lecky in Seattle. And a photo of him, no less. Certainly it couldn’t be so hard with all that to find an address.

  ‘She hasn’t seen that, has she?’ Candice asked. He didn’t know how best to answer.

  Ian slept in on Saturday, pretending that the dead black sleep and the hung-over exhaustion of his body was related somehow to luxury. It had been years since he’d been able to sleep past six a.m. He had Diane to feed and dress and shuffle off to school. He had his commute. His body learned its rhythms, and then it held to them. But Saturday, Ian rose at ten.

  Diane was already on the couch, a bowl of cereal in her lap, her eyes clouded. Her skin seemed paler, framed by the darkness of her hair. Bags under her eyes like bruises. Ian recalled Victorian death pictures – photographs of the dead kept as mementos, or perhaps to hold a bit of the soul that had fled. He made himself toast and tea, and sat beside his daughter.

  On the TV, girls three or four years older than Diane were talking animatedly about their boyfriends. They wore tight jeans and midriff tops, and no one thought it odd. No one wondered whether this was the path of wisdom. He found himself wondering what Diane made of it, but didn’t ask. There were more pressing issues.

  ‘How’d you sleep?’ he asked.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘More nightmares?’

  She shrugged, her gaze fixed on the screen. Ian nodded, accepting the tacit yes. He finished his toast, washed down the last of his tea, smacked his lips.

  ‘I have to go out for a little while. Errands.’

  ‘Want me to come too?’

  ‘No, you stay here. I won’t be long.’

  Diane looked away and down. It made his heart ache to see it. Part of that was knowing that he’d once again failed to protect her from some little pain, and part a presentiment of the longer absence she would have to endure. He leaned over and kissed the crown of her head where the bones hadn’t been closed the first time he’d held her.

  ‘I’ll be right back, kiddo,’ he murmured, and she smiled wanly, accepting his half-apology. And yet, by the time he had his keys, she was lost again in the television, gone into her own world as if he had never been there.

  Tohiro was sitting in his driveway, a lawnmower partially disassembled before him. He nodded as Ian came up the path, but neither rose nor turned back to his work. Ian squatted beside him.

  ‘I don’t know why I think I can do this,’ Tohiro said. ‘Every time I start, it’s like I don’t remember how poorly it went the time before. And by the time it comes back to me, it’s too late, the thing’s already in pieces.’

  ‘Hard. I do the same thing myself.’

  Tohiro nodded.

  ‘I need a favor,’ Ian said. ‘I have to go away for a bit. Diane’s mother and I…there are some things we need to discuss. I might be away for week, perhaps. Perhaps less. I was wondering if…’

  It choked him. Asking for help had never been a strong suit, nor lying. The two together were almost more than he could manage. Tohiro frowned and leaned forward, picking up a small, grease-covered bit of machinery and dropping it thoughtfully into a can of gasoline.

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ Tohiro asked. ‘The timing might look…’

  He knew then. Diane had told Kit, and Kit her parents; nothing could be more natural.

  ‘I don’t have the option,’ Ian said.

  ‘This is about what’s happening to Diane?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ian’s knees were starting to ache a bit, but he didn’t move, nor did Tohiro. The moment stretched, then:

  ‘It might be better if Kit invited her,’ Tohiro said. ‘If it were a treat – a week-long slumber party – it could mask the sting.’

  ‘Do you think she would?’

  ‘For Diane? Kit would learn to fly if Diane asked her. Girls.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it. More than I can say.’

  ‘You are putting a certain faith in me.’

  Tohiro met his gaze, expression almost challenging.

  ‘It isn’t you,’ Ian said, softly. ‘I’m fairly sure I know who it is.’

  ‘I see.’

  Ian shrugged, aware as he did so that it was a mirror of his daughter’s, and that Tohirio would understand its eloquence as Ian had understood Diane’s.

  ‘I’ll let you know when it’s going to happen,’ Ian said. ‘I can’t go before the CPS home visit, but it won’t be long after that. And if you ever need the same of me, only say so.’

  The man shifted under Ian’s words, uneased. Dark eyes looked up at him and then away. Tohiro stuck fingers into the gasoline, pulling out the shining metal that the fuel had cleaned.

  ‘That brings up something. Ian…Anna and I would rather not have Kit stay over with Diane. I know it isn’t you, that you wouldn’t…but the stakes are high, and I can’t afford being wrong.’

  Ian rocked back. A too-wide rictus grin forced its way onto his face – he could feel the skin pulling.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ian, it’s just…’

  ‘It’s the right thing,’ he forced out, ignoring the anger and shock, pushing it down. ‘If I thought for a minute that it was you…or even if I only weren’t certain, then…’

  Ian opened his hands, fingers spread; the gesture a suggestion of open possibility, a euphemism for violence. It was something they both understood. Men protected their children. Men like the two of them, at least.

  Ian pulled himself up, his knees creaking. Kit, in the window, caught sight of him and waved. She was lighter than Diane, but not as pretty, Ian thought.

  ‘I’ll call later,’ Ian said.

  ‘Do. I’ll talk with Kit. We’ll arrange things. But, Ian? Diane needs you.’

  ‘I know she does. I don’t want to leave her. Especially now, I just…’

  ‘I didn’t mean don’t go,’ Tohiro said. ‘I meant don’t get caught.’

  The home visit was less than he expected. Two women in casual businesswear appeared at the appointed hour. One took Diane away, the other asked him profoundly personal questions – Why had his wife left him? Had he been in therapy? Did he have a police record? Could he describe his relationship with his daughter? Only the last of these pushed him to tears. The woman was sympathetic, but unmoved; a citizen of a nation of tears from innocent and guilty alike.

  She arranged a time and place for Diane to see a doctor – a woman doctor and Ian hadn’t even had to ask. He promised that Diane would be there, and she explained the legal ramifications if she were not. The other woman appeared with Diane at her side. Diane’s face was grey with exhaustion. Ian shook their hands, thanked them explicitly for coming, implicitly for not taking his child from him.

  When they had gone, Diane went out to the back steps, looking out over a yard gone to seed – long grass and weeds. Her head rested in her hands. Ian sat beside her.

  ‘Not so bad, was it?’ he asked.

  ‘She asked me a lot of questions,’ Diane said. ‘I don’t know if I answered them all right.’

  ‘Did you tell her the truth?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Only think?’

  Diane’s brow furrowed as she looked at the horizon. Her shoulders hunched forward.

  ‘She asks if things happened. And sometimes I think they did, but then I can’t remember. After a while I start getting scared.’

  ‘It’s like you’re living a life you don’t know about,’ Ian said, and she nodded. He put an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned in to him, trembling and starting to cry. Her sobs wracked her thin body like vomiting. Ian, holding her, wept.

  ‘I’m not okay, Daddy,’ she wailed to his breast. ‘I’m not okay. I’m not okay.’

  ‘You will be, sweetie. You will.’

  The picture is cropped. In the or
iginal, things had been happening as unnatural to paper as they would be to a child. In this version, only the man’s chest above the nipples, his shoulders, his face, his smug expression. These are all the details that matter. In this photograph, he could be anyone, doing anything. It is a headshot, something to put down on a bar or store counter, the sort of photograph that seems to fit perfectly with the phrase ‘I’m looking for someone; maybe you’ve seen him.’

  The original photo has obscenities and suggestions written on it. There is no writing on this copy, no note to accompany it. Nothing that will tie it back to Ian, should the police find it and not him.

  He had driven to Seattle – a two-day trip – in a day and a half. Flying would have been faster, but he’d taken his pistol out of storage. Driving with a handgun was easy; flying impossible or, if not impossible, not worth doing.

  He arrived in the city late at night and called Diane from a payphone using a card he’d bought with cash. She was fine. School was boring. Kit was a butthead. Her voice was almost normal – if he knew her less, he might have mistaken it. He was her father, though, and he knew what she sounded like when things were okay and when she only wanted them to be. They didn’t talk about the nightmares. He told her he loved her, and she evaded, embarrassed. With the handset back in its cradle, the gun in his jacket pocket pulling the fabric down like a hand on his shoulder, Ian stood in the rain, the cool near-mist soaking him. In time, he gathered himself together enough to find a hotel and a bed to lie in while his flesh hummed from exhaustion and the road.

  Finding Lecky took all the next day and part of the night, but he did it. The morning sun gave the lie to the city’s grey reputation – clouds of perfect white stretched, thinned, vanished, reformed against a perfect blue sky. Nature ignoring Ian’s desperation. The kids spare changing on the street corners avoided his gaze.

  It was early, the morning rush hour still a half hour from starting. Ian didn’t want the beast to go off to work, didn’t want to spend a day waiting for the confrontation. He wanted it over now.

  The house was in a bad part of town, but the lawn was trim, the windows clean. Moss stained the concrete walk, and the morning paper lay on the step, wrapped in dewey plastic. Ian picked it up, shaking the drops from it, and then rang the doorbell. His breath was shaking. The door opened and the beast appeared, a cup of coffee in one hand.

  There was no glimmer of recognition, no particular sense of confusion or unease. Here, Ian thought, was a man with a clear conscience. A man who had done no wrong.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ Ian said, handing the man his newspaper.

  ‘I’m sorry. Do I know you?’

  ‘No. But we have business in common. We have people in common, I think. May I come in?’

  The man frowned down at Ian and put down the paper.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the beast said, smiling as he stepped back, preparing to close the door. ‘I have to get to work here, and really I don’t want whatever you’re selling. Thanks, though.’

  ‘I’ve come for Flat Diane.’

  The man’s expression shifted – surprise, chagrin, anger all in the course of a single breath. Ian clamped his hand on the butt of his pistol, his finger resting against the trigger.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,’ Ian said. ‘I have the pictures.’

  The beast shook his head, defensive and dismissive at the same time.

  ‘Okay,’ the man said. ‘Okay, look, so it was a bad joke. All right. I mean, it’s not like anyone got hurt, right?’

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  Something in Ian’s voice caught his attention. Pale blue eyes fixed on him, the first hint of fear behind them. Ian didn’t soften. His heart was tripping over like he’d been running, but his head felt very calm.

  ‘No one got hurt,’ the man said. ‘It’s just paper. So maybe it was a little crude. It was just a joke, right? You’re, like, Diane’s dad? Look, I’m sorry if that was a little upsetting, but…’

  ‘I saw what you did to her.’

  ‘To who?’ The eyes were showing their fear, their confusion.

  ‘My daughter.’

  ‘I never touched your daughter.’

  ‘No?’

  It was a joy, stripping his certainty away, seeing the smug, leering face confused and frightened. Ian leaned in.

  ‘Tell you what. Give me Flat Diane,’ he said, ‘and I might let you live.’

  The panic in the pale eyes was joyous, but even in his victory, Ian felt the hint that it was too much; he’d gone too far.

  ‘Sure,’ the beast said, nodding. ‘No, really, sure. Come on, I’ll…’

  And he tried to slam the door. Ian had known it was coming, was ready for it. His foot blocked the closing door and he pulled the gun from his pocket. The beast jumped back, lost his balance, toppled. The coffee fanned out behind him and splashed on the hardwood floor as Ian kicked the door closed behind him.

  The beast was blinking, confused. His hands were raised, not in surrender, but protection, as if his fingers might deflect a bullet. A radio was playing – morning show chatter. Ian smelled bacon grease on the air.

  ‘Please,’ the beast said. ‘Look, it’s going to be okay, guy. Just no guns. All right? No guns.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Flat Diane!’ Ian yelled, pleased to see the beast flinch.

  ‘It’s not here anymore. Seriously. Seriously, it’s gone. Joke over. Honestly.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Look, it’s a long story. There were some things that happened and it just made sense to get rid of it, you know? Let it go. It was only supposed to be a joke. You know Candice…’

  Ian shook his head. He felt strange; his mind was thick as cotton and yet perfectly lucid.

  ‘I’m not leaving without her,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not here!’ the beast shouted, his face flushed red. He rolled over, suddenly facing the back of the house. Running. With a feeling like reaching out to tap the fleeing man’s shoulder, Ian raised the gun and fired. The back of the beast’s head bloomed like a rose, and he fell.

  Oh Jesus, Ian thought. And then, a moment later, I couldn’t have made that shot if I’d tried.

  He walked forward, pistol trained on the unmoving shape, but there was no need. The beast was dead. He’d killed him. Ian stood silently, watching the pool of blood seep across the floor.

  There was less than he’d thought. The morning show announcers laughed at something. Outside, a semi drove by, rattling the windows. Ian put the gun in his pocket, ignoring the heat.

  He hadn’t touched anything, not with his hands. There were no fingerprints. But he didn’t have Flat Diane. He had to search the place. He had to hurry. Perhaps the beast kept plastic gloves. The kind you use for housework.

  He searched the bedroom, the bath. The kitchen where half an egg was growing cold and solid on its plate. And then the room in the back. The room from the pictures. He went though everything – the stacks of pornography, the camera equipment. He didn’t look away, no matter how vile the things he found. Rape porn. Children being used. Other things. Worse. But not his daughter.

  He sat on the edge of the bathtub, head in his hands, when the voice came. The house was a shambles. Flat Diane wasn’t there, or if she was, she was too well hidden. He didn’t know what to do. The doorbell chimed innocently and a faint voice came.

  ‘Stan?’ it said. A woman’s voice. ‘Stan, are you in there? It’s Margie.’

  Ian stood and walked. He didn’t run. He stepped over the corpse, calmly out the back door, stuffing the rubber gloves into his pockets as he went. There was an alleyway, and he opened the gate and stepped out into it. He didn’t run. If he ran, they’d know he was running from something. And Diane needed him, didn’t she. Needed him not to get caught.

  Ian didn’t stop to retrieve his things from the hotel; he walked to his car, slipped behind the wheel, drove. Twe
nty minutes east of Klamath Falls, he pulled to the side, walked to a tree, and leaning against it vomited until he wept.

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said through his horror. ‘Christ, I didn’t mean to.’

  He hadn’t called Diane from his room. He hadn’t given anyone his name. He’d even found a hotel that took cash. Of course he’d fucking meant to.

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said.

  He slept that night at a rest stop, bent uncomfortably across the back seat. In his dreams, he saw the moment again and again; felt the pistol jump; heard the body strike wood. The pistol jumped; the body struck the floor. The pale head, round as an egg, cracked open. The man fled, heels kicking back behind him; the pistol jumped.

  Morning was sick. A pale sun in an empty sky. Ian stretched out the vicious kinks in his back, washed his face in the restroom sink, and drove until nightfall.

  He hadn’t found Flat Diane, but he couldn’t go back for her – not now. Maybe later, when things cooled down. But by then she could have been thrown away or burned or cut to pieces. And he couldn’t guess what might happen to Diane when her shadow was destroyed – freedom or death or something entirely else. He didn’t want to think about it. The worst was over, though. The worst had to be over, or else he didn’t think he could keep breathing.

  Tohiro and Anna’s house glowed in the twilight, windows bright and cheerful and warm and normal. He watched them from the street, his back knotted from driving, the car ticking as it cooled. Tohiro passed by the picture window, his expression calm, distant and slightly amused. Anna was in the kitchen, the back of her head moving as her hands worked at something; washing, cutting, wringing – there was no way to tell. Somewhere in there, Kit and Diane played the games they always did. The pistol jumped; the body fell. Ian started the car, steadied his hands on the wheel, then killed the engine and got out.

  Tohiro’s eyebrows rose a fraction and a half-smile graced his mouth when he opened the door.