Colt snatched the paper from her. “You’re right, you’re not my mother. She would have known better. So long, toots.” He slammed the door as he left.
Out on the street, the morning was cool, but his hangover was pulsing in his head and stomach was boiling. He patted his pockets, hoping to find a stray cigarette, but he had no such luck. But what was luck to Colt Brewster? Since when had he ever needed it? He spied a good-looking woman in a stylish trench coat, a cigarette stuck out of her mouth, walking the opposite way down the side walk. “Say, s’cuse me, miss.” He stopped to get her attention. “Could you spare a minute for the health inspector?”
She stopped walking, confused. “The health inspector?”
“Yeah, that's right, ma’am. I’m afraid to have to do this but, you know those things are bad for your health?” He motioned to her cigarette.
“Gee, they aught to print that on the box,” she said sarcastically.
“Well, I was thinking, me being the health inspector and all, I think it’d be best if you didn't smoke all those. I think you’d better give at least one to me. I don't want to have to do this, but I’m just so damned dedicated to my job.” He grinned.
“Oh, that’s rich,” she smiled back, could not helped but be charmed.
“Thanks, doll.” Colt Brewster winked at her as the cigarette changed hands, and for a moment it felt almost as though he’d just done her a favor. He continued walking, lit the cigarette. He inhaled, blew out a cloud of smoke that drifter behind him, thinking about the conversation he’d just had with Daisy. Suddenly he didn't want the cigarette. He took it out of his mouth and stared at it smoldering, pinched between his thumb and index finger. He threw it down, unsmoked, and stamped on it. He pulled his collar up around his neck, grumbling to himself as he went along.
Later that day he ran into an old friend, which was not surprising, because Colt Brewster had many friends, both old and new, and was forever running into them. This man’s name was DuChette, he remembered when he tuned to greet the man waving him down and calling his name on the street. DuChette , he recalled was a rather seedy figure, and he was preoccupied with seeing what had become of Mr. Mendel, so was not initially in a mood to catch up, as DuChette proposed, but when he also mentioned that he was headed to his brother-in -law’s restaurant for a lavish lunch, Colt was quick to reconsider.
DuChette led the way. They arrived at the restaurant, only to find it closed and all the lights off, Colt accepted DuChette’s explanation that it was temporarily closed for some light remodeling, but, since he had a key, and the freezer and bar were well-stocked, they should go in and make themselves comfortable. Colt agreed that this was the best course of action, and they went in, and he was a little more than surprised to see that DuChette did actually have a key.
Colt selected a bottle of wine while DuChette fired up the burners and fried some steaks and boiled potatoes. They sat down, and the steaks were tough- DuChette, it turned out, was no chef, but the wine was good, and it was all free, so Colt couldn't complain. The two men caught up, eating alone in the restaurant at the only table that didn't have chairs stacked upside down on it. They finished, both of them wiping their fingers and mouths on the tablecloth. DuChette told Colt he could take another bottle with him if he wanted to. He wanted to, and when he was done selecting from a store room in back, he came round the front to find his friend trying to open the till. Colt showed him how to do it, but it was empty. DuChette, undeterred, rooted around in the space beneath the register, and came out with a brown sack with a stack of bills inside it. He explained to Colt that his brother-in-law owed him this money, and then he thumbed off some bills from the top off the stack and handed them to Colt, ‘for his trouble,’ which Colt pocketed without counting. It really was no trouble at all. Outside, the men went their separate ways vowing to keep in touch, and see each other real soon. Colt walked off into the early night with a fine bottle of cognac under his arm. He started whistling, but stopped when he realized where he’d been headed earlier. He rooted around in his pocket, past the bills, and pulled out the scrap of paper that Daisy had scribbled the address on, squinted at it under a streetlamp.
The moon was full in the night sky as Colt approached Mr. Mendel’s timeworn little house. It was less ramshackle than he had pictured it, but not by much. He looked up at the tilting chimney sending a steady cloud of black smoke into the night air. At least I know he’s home, although it seemed that Mr. Mendel possessed excellent night vision, for there was not a light burning that colt could see from outside. He walked up the front steps and knocked on the door. There was no answer, but he found the door unlocked.
Inside the house was black as pitch, and Colt moved slowly with his hands out in front of him, wholly prepared for the startling pain of his shin banging against some cruelly honed thing waiting for him in the dark. “Mr. Mendel?” he called. No answer. He cradled the bottle in one arm like a football, determined to protect it should he trip. “I, uh, brought you a bottle of cognac.” He unscrewed the top and took a drink directly from the neck. “I’m not sure I could pronounce it, but it tastes real expensive. You just call out, now, or tell me where you are, or turn a light on, and we’ll get some glasses out, what do you say?”
Still there was no answer, and he continued on through the darkness. He came to what could only be the foot of a staircase, and he called up. “I’m coming up, now, Mr. Mendel, so don't get spooked if you hear me. I’m just going to come up and we’ll have that drink, okay?”
There was no answer.
Each step sighed and creaked under his weight as he slowly made his way to the top, one hand sliding over the ancient railing, sticky with God knew what had accumulated over the years. He reached the last stair, and found that he was in a hallway, vast and almost infinite in the blackness, and there to his left, barely perceptible, was a flicker of light coming from under what mist be a closed door. He pushed it open.
Poor, wizened Mr. Mendel sat in a dirty and ancient easy chair. There was no light in the room save for the crackling flames in the fireplace, all twisting and leaping and making mad sparks in Mr. Mendel’s glassy eyes. He did not look up as Colt entered the room.
“Say, this is a cozy little operation you got here Mr. Mendel.” Said Colt, spreading his palm out before the fire. “No wonder you didn’t feel like getting out tonight, huh. But, you know, we- everyone at the Tap, that is, was all real worried about you, Mr. Mendel. When you didn't show up tonight. We thought, well, we were worried, like I said.”
Mr Mendel gave no sign that he could hear anything Colt was saying to him. He only stared long and hard into the dancing flames, shadows ebbing around his pale, little bald head. There was a small bed in the room, and Colt made use of it, springs sagging under his weight as he wrestl;ed once again with the bottle top. He took a long drink. “Yeah, this is fine stuff, alright. You just speak up Mr. Mendel, and I’ll pour some for you.” He set the bottle on the floor and swiveled his head back and forth, taking the room in. It was dark, dusty looking like no one had been inside for a long time. “This place is pretty old. How long have you been here, anyway? I’ll bet this place is nearly as old as the country. Looks like it anyway. Colt let loose a low whistle, talking now just to fill the silence. “Yeah, piece of property like this must really rack up in value, right? I mean, its the land, you know? Any fool can put a cracker box on a-”
“Hush,” Mr. Mendel spoke up, and Colt’s mouth instantly clamped shut. “You prattle on and on,but what you really want to know about is the box. The box and the man. The little man and his curiosity. My curiosity, damn him. You’re curious too, is that it? Came to have a little peek? Curious. Curious. What’s he given to poor old Mr. Mendel, then? What has he sold him that he couldn't resist? Hmmm . . . I wonder.” He spoke, never turning his gaze away from the flames, occasional licking out of the fireplace, perhaps to taste the coolness of the air before receding into the blaze again. “Like to know, would you?”
“H
ow ‘bout that drink?” said Colt. He took another without waiting for a reply.
He continued to watch the flames. “There are things that we are not meant to know. Things that we should never know, but desperately need to, and horribly, we shall.”
Colt dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, feeling the heat from the cognac in his belly. “Things? What sort of things?”
Mr. Mendel only shook his head. “I had a wife, did you know it? Yes, my sweet Helena, gone now these months,” he sighed, a weary sound. “How I longed to know where they go; where she went. Is she safe? Is she at peace? Do the angels fly among her? Oh, to know, to hear her sweet voice just once more to answer but a single question,” he sighed again. “Such temptation! And what do you think he offered me? What do you think he’s been dangling before me all this time? To know just that. To hear her voice. Listen. You can hear it now if you’re quiet. Do you hear it?”
Colt leaned forward and strained to hear. “No,” he said. “There’s nothing.”
“What mercy. I hear it. I hear it even now. How she screams. Such a bestial sound. To hear it . . . I cannot begin to imagine the horrid forms that death sculpts us into. And this, it is only a hint at the madness that lies in wait for us in that endless dark. It is coming.”
Colt felt a sudden chill at his words. “That’s what’s in the box? The old man told you this?”
“It’s what was in mine. What waits for you in yours, I cannot say. You’ll know soon enough I should think. We all will.”
“The boxes,” said Colt.
“Yes,” said Mr. Mendel, still peering, peering forever peering into the flames in his hearth. “They do not burn. There is no silence anymore. Why does it not burn? Do you see?” And Mr. Mendel rose abruptly and went to the flaming hearth. He knelt down, and before Colt realized what he was doing, he had drawn the length of his arm into the blaze.
The smell of burning flesh filled the room, and Colt could hear the fat on Mr. Mendel's arm sizzle with the crackling of charred skin. He went to his feet, but Mendel had already withdrawn his arm. The fire had withered it hideously, and what flesh remained was swollen with crisp blisters and blackened smears of greasy suet still smoldering and congealing around charred bone. But what was even more horrible was that Colt could plainly see that Mr. Mendel was holding the little box that the salesman had given him. He had pulled it from the fire, and true to his word, it was untouched by heat or smoke. He held it out toward Colt.
“There, do you see? It cannot be destroyed! It cannot be silenced! It does not relent! It waits! It waits for me! It waits for you! A quick look, then? How 'bout it? That's what you’re here for isn't it? Shall I?” Mr. Mendel put his unburned hand over the box, fingers resting on the lid. ‘Yes, you’d like that, wouldn't you? Like to have a look. A quick peek. You’re a curious one. Just a quick peek then, and then you’ll hear it too. You’ll hear it forever. Once you hear it, you can sit hear with me, and listen; listen and wish you had never been tempted. What do you say? Just a peek. A quick look is all it takes.”
Colt backed away from Mr. Mendel. He could see his eyes bulging wildly, firelight twisting in their reflection, and he knew that there was not an ounce of sanity left in Mr. Mendel. Colt dodged around the old mad man and shot out for the door. He rushed down the stairs and through the darkness, the whole while listening to that awful howling laugh from the second story. “You’ll see,” Mr. Mendel screamed in his madness as Colt felt through the black for the front door. “You’ll see soon enough! You won’t resist him. I couldn't, and you won't either, none of you will, then you’ll all be like me! You’llll aaaaaallll beeee like meeeeeee!”
Finally he felt the door and threw it open and scrambled down the steps. When he was in the cool safety of the night, he turned, chanced a look back, and to his horror he saw the window of the room where he had talked to Mr. Mendel was a bright flickering orange, engulfed in flames. He could not help but listen, could not help but think he heard Mr. Mendel screaming as the flames spread through the house to devour it.
Having no where else to go, and his mind so severely taxed, he thought he would head for the Leaky Tap. And somewhere he knew in his subconscious that he was unburdening himself of a bit more than his sobriety. He suspected, chillingly, that he would relieve his curiosity too before the night was done.
The clock above the bar glass said it was nine-thirty when he arrived. He had hoped to find Daisy in her usual spot, but she was absent. Perhaps it was for the best, as Colt had much weighing on his mind, and the last time he had seen Daisy she had been angry with him. He didn't need to have another fight with her at the moment, but knew he would probably provoke one anyway if he saw her.
He drank whiskey in silence, staring up at the clock, watching every tick of the second hand. He thought about all Mr. Mendel had said, a tangle of mad words and notions that he could not begin to unravel. Another whiskey helped reduce his troubles to a dull and manageable pulp. The seconds ticked by and he stared at the clock obsessively, beads of sweat on his upper lip, occasionally bringing an empty glass to his mouth, unconscious of the weight of it. He smoked a cigarette.
They were dwindling, small number missing Daisy and now Mr. Mendel. Only Iris, the young couple, Orval and himself, all waiting for that horrible hour to arrive, simultaneously praying it would never come, and wishing it had already passed.
Orval claimed a temporary last call as ten o’clock neared. No one paid much attention, no one seemed to have much interest in drinking tonight. A sensible dread clung heavy to the open air like fog after a hot shower. There was something different about this night, and they were all as solemn as death row inmates watching their last earthly hour wind down. Colt’s breath shortened to a halted clip, his stomach tightened as the minute hand stood erect, straight-up and foreboding.
And then, as it had for countless nights before it, though it never would again, the door of the Leaky Tap was blown in by a frigid and sinister wind, and the little salesman stepped calmly and quietly through the threshold, his little tray before him. The room dimmed and the old man stood illuminated by a circle of light from an unseen source.
“Here we are again, ladies and gents!” he began in his booming pitch voice. He put on a show of examining the room and made a pitiful clucking sound with his tongue. “Such dire turnout doesn’t make my business any easier, but I’ll sully on, as I must. I am a professional, after all.” He gave a quick grin before launching into his spiel. “Well, folks, there aren’t many of you left, that means I’m doing my job, and after tonight there will be fewer of you still, if any at all are left.” He let that last bit hang in the air ominously. “But if you’re here, and I’m here, then I must still have something to sell. And you must still be interested, isn’t that right folks?” No answer. “But what is it that I have to sell, you ask? Well, I’m selling wonder itself. Think about all you dream. Think about about all you wonder. Think about all there is to know. Think about all there is you don't know. Think about all there is that you don't know that you don’t know. That, my friends, is what I have to offered you. Are you afraid? Are you bothered? Are there questions you desperately want to know the answer to? Are there questions you’re too afraid to ask? Do you have answers without questions? Riddles without solutions? Puzzles that will not be solved? Well, I’m here to offer you reprieve, clemency from your own nature; salvation from yourself; redemption without religion. Ladies and gentlemen, I offer you the everlasting satisfaction from all curiosity. All you have to do is accept my offer. Is it free? Hell no! It ain't free. But it costs you so little you won't even notice. So what do you say, ladies and gents, do I have any takers? Who will be first, eh? Don't rush, don't rush, there’s plenty for all!”
The bar room sat in silence as the salesman made his way across, phantom spotlight following him. He came to the young couple, seated at their usual table. “Ah, here we have the almost-Raineses, so young, so much of life still a mystery to them. How are we tonight, my old
friends? What weighs so heavily upon you that I might offer relief?” They sat in fear of the little man, refusing to lift their faces to meet his gaze. “I’m feeling generous tonight, my old, young friends.” He selected a box from the tray and held it out. “One for the price of two. One to share. Two lovers, a single soul between them. What wonders could ever be in store? I’ll give you a hint. See, I told you I was feeling generous. Listen! It’s just like Christmas morning. Can you hear?” The white haired old man shook the box ever so slightly, and they heard the disturbing sound within. It was a sound like rocks tumbling, crashing, falling all around. They both cringed.
“No takers? Why not sit and think it over for a while, I’ll be here.”
Colt, from his perch on the bar stool watched the salesman try his pitch on the lonely Iris, all the while never taking his eyes off the tray of irresistible boxes, his fascination with them growing to an overwhelming urge. Iris trembled in fear while the salesman smiled and let his pitch erupt from him like a ceaseless roll of thunder. When he was done, Colt watched Iris’ shaking hand reach for her drink, the jagged ice rattling like whatever was in the box the little man had shaken before her. She had resisted.
The salesman moved on to Orval, drawing ever closer to Colt. The tray of boxes becoming more mysterious, more imperceptible as each second passed. The white haired huckster had no luck with Orval. He stood behind the bar, head down, praying silently for the moment the salesman would leave him alone. And when the old white haired man shook the box, how Orval jumped and shuddered at that rolling, crashing sound, as if he was hearing his own death rattle. But Orval could not be tempted.
Stranger Realms Page 3
