GrimscribeHisLivesandWorks

ThomasLigotti

SubterraneanPress2011

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TomybrotherBob

Introduction

Hisnameis…Will itevercometome?There isagrand lapseofmemorythatmaybethe

only thing to save us from ultimate horror. Perhaps they know the truth whopreach thepassingof one life into another, vowing thatbetween a certaindeathandacertainbirththereisanintervalinwhichanoldnameisforgottenbeforeanew one is learned.And to remember the name of a former life is to begin thebackward slide into that great blackness in which all names have their source,becoming incarnate in a succession of bodies like numberless verses of an infinitescripture.

Tofindthatyouhavehadsomanynamesistoloseclaimtoanyoneofthem.Togainthememoryofsomanylivesistolosethemall.

Sohekeepshisnamesecret,hismanynames.Hehideseachonefromalltheothers,sothattheywillnotbecomelostamongthemselves.Protectinghislifefromall his lives, from the memory of so many lives, he hides behind the mask ofanonymity.

ButevenifIcannotknowhisname,Ihavealwaysknownhisvoice.Thatisonethinghecanneverdisguise,evenifitsoundslikemanydifferentvoices.IknowhisvoicewhenIhear it speak,because it isalwaysspeakingof terrible secrets. Itspeaks of the most grotesque mysteries and encounters, sometimes with despair,sometimeswithdelight,andsometimeswithaspiritnotpossible todefine.Whatcrimeorcursehaskepthimturninguponthis samewheelof terror, spinningouthistaleswhichalwaystellofthestrangenessandhorrorofthings?Whenwillhemakeanendtohistelling?

Hehastoldussomanythings,andhewilltellusmore.Yethewillnevertellhisname.Notbeforetheveryendofhisoldlife,andnotafterthebeginningofeachnewone.Notuntiltimeitselfhaserasedeverynameandtakenawayeverylife.

Butuntilthen,everyoneneedsaname.Everyonemustbecalledsomething.Sowhatcanwesayisthenameofeveryone?

OurnameisGRIMSCRIBE.Thisisourvoice.

TheVoice

ofthe

DAMNED

TheLastFeastofHarlequin

MyinterestinthetownofMirocawwasfirstarousedwhenIheardthatanannualfestivalwasheldtherewhich,amongitsotherelementsofpageantry,featuredtheparticipationof clowns.A former colleagueofmine,who isnowattached to theanthropologydepartmentofadistantuniversity,hadreadoneofmyrecentarticles(“TheClownFigureinAmericanMedia,”JournalofPopularCulture),andwroteto me that he vaguely remembered reading about or being told of a townsomewhereinthestatethatheldakindof“Fool’sFeast”everyyear,thinkingthatthis might be pertinent to my peculiar line of study. It was, of course, morepertinentthanhehadreasontothink,bothtomyacademicaimsinthisareaandtomypersonalpursuits.

Aside from my teaching, I had for some years been engaged in variousanthropologicalprojectswiththeprimaryambitionofarticulatingthesignificanceof the clown figure in diverse cultural contexts. Every year for the past twentyyears I have attended the pre-Lenten festivals that are held in various placesthroughout the southern United States. Every year I learned something moreconcerningtheesotericsofcelebration.InthesestudiesIwasaneagerparticipant—alongwith playingmy part as an anthropologist, I also took a place behind theclownishmaskmyself.AndIcherishedthisroleasIdidnothingelseinmylife.Tome the title ofClown has always carried connotations of a noble sort. Iwas anadroitjester,strangelyenough,andhadalwaystakenprideintheskillsIworkedsodiligentlytodevelop.

IwrotetotheStateDepartmentofRecreation,indicatingwhatinformationIdesiredandexposinganenthusiasticurgencywhich camenaturally tomeon thistopic.Manyweeks later I received a tan envelope imprintedwith a governmentlogo.Insidewasapamphletthatcataloguedallofthevariousseasonalfestivitiesofwhichthestatewasofficiallyaware,andInotedinpassingthattherewereasmanyin lateautumnandwinteras inthewarmerseasons.Aletter insertedwithinthepamphletexplainedtomethat,accordingtotheirvoluminousrecords,nofestivalsheldinthetownofMirocawhadbeenofficiallyregistered.Theirfiles,nonetheless,couldbeplacedatmydisposalifIshouldwishtoresearchthisorsimilarmattersin

connection with some definite project. At the time this offer was made I wasalready laboring under so many professional and personal burdens that, with awearyhand,Isimplydepositedtheenvelopeanditscontentsinadrawer,nevertobeconsultedagain.

Some months later, however, I made an impulsive digression from myresponsibilities and, rather haphazardly, took up the Mirocaw project. ThishappenedasIwasdrivingnorthoneafternooninlatesummerwiththeintentionofexaminingsomejournalsintheholdingsofalibraryatanotheruniversity.Onceoutof the city limits the scenery changed to sunny fields and farms, diverting mythoughts from the signs that I passed along the highway. Nevertheless, thesubconsciousscholarinmemusthavebeenregardingthesewithstudiouscare.Thename of a town loomed into my vision. Instantly the scholar retrieved certainrecordsfromsomedeepmentaldrawer,andIwasfacedwithmakingafewhastycalculations as to whether there was enough time and motivation for aninvestigativesidetrip.Buttheexitsignwasevenhastierinmakingitsappearance,andIsoonfoundmyselfleavingthehighway,recallingtheroadsign’spromisethatthetownwasnomorethansevenmileseast.

These seven miles included several confusing turns, the forced taking of atemporarilyalternateroute,andadestinationnotevenvisibleuntilasteeprisehadbeen fullyascended.Onthedescentanotherhelpful sign informedme that Iwaswithin the city limits ofMirocaw.Some scatteredhouses on theoutskirts of thetownwerethefirststructuresIencountered.BeyondthemthenumericalhighwaybecameTownshendStreet,themainavenueofMirocaw.

ThetownimpressedmeasbeingmuchlargeronceIwaswithinitslimitsthanithadappearedfromtheprominencejustoutside.Isawthatthegeneralhillinessofthe surrounding countryside was also an internal feature of Mirocaw. Here,though, the effect was different. The parts of the town did not look as if theyadheredverywelltooneanother.Thisconditionmightbeblamedontheirregulartopography of the town. Behind some of the old stores in the business district,steeplyroofedhouseshadbeenerectedonasuddenincline,theirpeaksappearingat

anextraordinaryelevationabovethelowerbuildings.Andbecausethefoundationsof thesehouses couldnot be glimpsed, they conveyed the illusionof being eitherprecariouslysuspendedinair,threateningtotoppledown,orelseconstructedwithan unnatural loftiness in relation to their width and mass. This situation alsocreatedaweirddistortionofperspective.Thetwolevelsofstructuresoverlappedeach otherwithout giving a sense of depth, so that the houses, because of theirhigher elevation and nearness to the foreground buildings, did not appeardiminishedinsizeasbackgroundobjectsshould.Consequently,alookofflatness,asinaphotograph,predominatedinthisarea.Indeed,Mirocawcouldbecomparedtoanalbumofoldsnapshots,particularlyonesinwhichthecamerahadbeenupsetinthe process of photography, causing the pictures to develop on an angle: a cone-roofed turret, like a pointed hat jauntily askew, peeked over the houses on aneighboringstreet;abillboarddisplayingagroupofgrinningvegetablestipped itscontents slightly westward; cars parked along steep curbs seemed to be flyingskyward in the glare-distorted windows of a five-and-ten; people leanedlethargically as they trodupanddown sidewalks; andon that sunnydaya clocktower,whichatfirstImistookforachurchsteeple,castalongshadowthatseemedto extend an impossible distance and wander into unlikely places in its progressacrossthetown.IshouldsaythatperhapsthedisharmoniesofMirocawaremoreacutely affecting my imagination in retrospect than theywere on that first day,whenIwasprimarilyconcernedwithlocatingthecityhallorsomeothercenterofinformation.

Ipulledaroundacornerandparked.Slidingovertotheothersideoftheseat,I rolled down thewindow and called to a passerby: “Excuseme, sir.”Theman,whowasshabbilydressedandveryold,pausedforamomentwithoutapproachingthecar.Thoughhehadapparentlyrespondedtomycall,hisvacantexpressiondidnotbetraytheleastawarenessofmypresence,andforamomentIthoughtitjustacoincidencethathehaltedonthesidewalkat thesametimeIaddressedhim.Hiseyeswerefocusedsomewherebeyondmewithawearyandimbecilicgaze.Afterafewmomentshe continuedonhisway and I saidnothing to call himback, even

though at the last second his face began to appear dimly familiar. Someone elsefinally came along who was able to direct me to the Mirocaw City Hall andCommunityCenter.

Thecityhallturnedouttobethebuildingwiththeclocktower.InsideIstoodatacounterbehindwhichsomepeoplewereworkingatdesksandwalkingupanddownabackhallway.Ononewallwasaposterforthestatelottery:ajack-in-the-boxwithbothhandsgraspinggreenbills.Afterafewmoments,atall,middle-agedwomancameovertothecounter.

“CanIhelpyou?”sheaskedinaneutral,bureaucraticvoice.IexplainedthatIhadheardaboutthefestival—sayingnothingaboutbeinga

nosy academic—and asked if she could provide me with further information ordirectmetosomeonewhocould.

“Doyoumeantheoneheldinthewinter?”sheasked.“Howmanyofthemarethere?”“Justthatone.”“Isuppose,then,thatthat’stheoneImean.”Ismiledasifsharingajokewith

her.Withoutanotherword,shewalkedoffintothebackhallway.Whileshewas

absent I exchanged glances with several of the people behind the counter whoperiodicallylookedupfromtheirwork.

“Thereyouare,”shesaidwhenshereturned,handingmeapieceofpaperthatlookedliketheproductofacheapcopymachine.PleaseCometotheFun,itsaidinlarge letters.Parades, itwenton,StreetMasquerade,Bands,TheWinterRaffle,andTheCoronationoftheWinterQueen.Thepagecontinuedwiththementionof a number of miscellaneous festivities. I read the words again. There wassomethingaboutthatimploringlittle“please”atthetopoftheannouncementthatmadethewholeaffairseemlikeacharityfunction.

“Whenisitheld?Itdoesn’tsaywhenthefestivaltakesplace.”“Mostpeople alreadyknow that.”She abruptly snatched thepage frommy

hands andwrote something at the bottom.When she gave it back tome, I saw

“Dec.19-21”writteninblue-greenink.Iwasimmediatelystruckbyanoddsenseofscheduling on the part of the festival committee. There was, of course, solidanthropological and historical precedent for holding festivities around thewintersolstice,butthetimingofthisparticulareventdidnotseementirelypractical.

“If you don’tmindmy asking, don’t these days somewhat conflictwith theregularholidayseason?Imean,mostpeoplehaveenoughgoingonatthattime.”

“It’sjusttradition,”shesaid,asifinvokingsomevenerableancestrybehindherwords.

“That’sveryinteresting,”Isaidasmuchtomyselfastoher.“Isthereanythingelse?”sheasked.“Yes.Couldyoutellmeifthisfestivalhasanythingtodowithclowns?Isee

there’ssomethingaboutamasquerade.”“Yes, of course there are somepeople in…costumes. I’veneverbeen in that

positionmyself…thatis,yes,thereareclownsofasort.”At that point my interest was definitely aroused, but I was not sure how

muchfurtherIwantedtopursueit.Ithankedthewomanforherhelpandaskedthe bestmeans of access to the highway, not anxious to retrace the labyrinthineroute bywhich I had entered the town. Iwalked back tomy carwith awholeflurry of half-formed questions, and as many vague and conflicting answers,clutteringmymind.

ThedirectionsthewomangavemenecessitatedpassingthroughthesouthendofMirocaw.Therewerenotmanypeoplemovingabout in this sectionof town.Those that I did see, shuffling lethargicallydownablockof battered storefronts,exhibited the same sort of forlorn expression and manner as the old man fromwhomIhadaskeddirectionsearlier.Imusthavebeentraversingacentralarteryofthisarea,foroneithersidestretchedstreetafterstreetofpoorlytendedyardsandhousesbowedwithageandindifference.WhenIcametoastopatastreetcorner,oneof the citizensof this slumpassed in frontofmy car.This lean,morose, andepicenepersonturnedmywayandsneeredoutrageouslywithatautlittlemouth,yet seemed to be looking at no one in particular.After progressing a few streets

farther, I came to a road that led back to the highway. I felt detectably morecomfortableassoonasIfoundmyselftravelingonceagainthroughtheexpansesofsun-drenchedfarmlands.

I reached the librarywithmore thanenough time formyresearch,and so Idecided tomake a scholarly detour to seewhatmaterial I could find thatmightilluminatethewinterfestivalheldinMirocaw.Thelibrary,oneoftheoldestinthestate,includedinitsholdingstheentirerunoftheMirocawCourier.Ithoughtthiswould be an excellent place to start. I soon found, however, that there was nohandyway to research information from this newspaper, and I did notwant toengageinablindsearchforarticlesconcerningaspecificsubject.

Inextturnedtothemoreorganizedresourcesofthenewspapersforthelargercitieslocatedinthesamecounty,whichincidentallysharesitsnamewithMirocaw.Iuncoveredverylittleaboutthetown,andalmostnothingconcerningitsfestival,except in one general article on annual events in the area that erroneouslyattributed toMirocaw a “largeMiddle-Eastern community” which every springhosted a kind of ethnic jamboree. Fromwhat I had already observed, and fromwhat I subsequently learned, the citizens ofMirocawwere solidlyMidwestern-American,theprobabledescendantsinadirectlinefromsomeenterprisingpackofNew Englanders of the last century. There was one brief item devoted to aMirocavianevent,but thismerely turnedout tobeanobituarynotice foranoldwomanwho had quietly taken her life around Christmastime. Thus, I returnedhomethatdayallbutempty-handedonthesubjectofMirocaw.

However, itwasnot long afterward that I received another letter from theformercolleagueofminewhohadfirstledmetoseekoutMirocawanditsfestival.Asithappened,herediscoveredthearticlethatcausedhimtostirmyinterestinalocal“Fool’sFeast.”ThisarticlehaditssoleappearanceinanobscurefestschriftofanthropologystudiespublishedinAmsterdamtwentyyearsbefore.Mostofthesepaperswere inDutch,a few inGerman,andonlyonewas inEnglish:“TheLastFeast of Harlequin: Preliminary Notes on a Local Festival.” It was exciting, ofcourse,finallytobeabletoreadthisstudy,butevenmoreexcitingwasthenameof

itsauthor:Dr.RaymondThoss.

2.

Before proceeding any further, I should mention something about Thoss, andinevitably aboutmyself.Over twodecades ago, atmy almamater inCambridge,Mass.,Thosswasaprofessorofmine.LongbeforeplayingaroleintheeventsIamabouttodescribe,hewasalreadyoneofthemost importantfigures inmylife.Astriking personality, he inevitably influenced everyonewho came in contactwithhim.Irememberhislecturesonsocialanthropology,howheturnedthatdimroominto a brilliant and profound circus of learning.Hemoved in an uncannily briskmanner.When he swept his arm around to indicate some common term on theblackboard behind him, one felt he was presenting nothing less than an item offantasticqualitiesandsecretvalue.Whenhereplacedhishandinthepocketofhisoldjacketthisfleetingmagicwasonceagainstoredawayinitswell-wornpouch,toberetrievedatthesorcerer’sdiscretion.Wesensedhewasteachingusmorethanwecouldpossiblylearn,andthathehimselfwasinpossessionofgreateranddeeperknowledge than he could possibly impart. On one occasion I summoned up theaudacity toofferan interpretation—whichwas somewhatopposedtohisown—regardingthetribalclownsoftheHopiIndians.Iimpliedthatpersonalexperienceasanamateurclownandspecialdevotiontothisstudyprovidedmewithaninsightpossiblymorevaluable thanhis own. Itwas thenhedisclosed, casually andveryobiterdicta,thathehadactuallyactedintheroleofoneofthesemaskedtribalfoolsandhadcelebratedwith themthedanceof thekachinas. In revealing these facts,however, he somehow managed not to add to the humiliation I had alreadyinflicteduponmyself.AndforthisIwasgratefultohim.

Thoss’sactivitiesweresuchthathesometimesbecametheobjectofgossiporromanticized speculation.Hewas a fieldworker par excellence, and his ability to

insinuatehimselfintoexoticculturesandsituations,therebygaininginsightswhereotheranthropologistsmerelycollecteddata,wasrenowned.Atvarioustimesinhiscareertherehadbeenrumorsofhishaving“gonenative”àlatheFrankHamiltonCushinglegend.Therewerehints,whichwerenotalwaysirresponsibleorcheaplyglamorized, that he was involved in projects of a freakish sort, many of whichfocusedonNewEngland.It isa factthathespentsixmonthsposingasamentalpatient at an institution inwesternMassachusetts, gathering information on the“culture”ofthepsychicallydisturbed.WhenhisbookWinterSolstice:TheLongestNight of a Society was published, the general opinion was that it wasdisappointingly subjective and impressionistic, and that, aside from a fewmovingbut “poetically obscure” observations, there was nothing at all to give it value.ThosewhodefendedThoss claimedhewasakindof super-anthropologist:whilemuchofhisworkemphasizedhisownmindandfeelings,hisexperiencehadinfactpenetrated to a rich core of hard datawhich he had yet to disclose in objectivediscourse.AsastudentofThoss,Itendedtosupportthislatterestimationofhim.For a variety of tenable and untenable reasons, I believed Thoss capable ofunearthinghitherto inaccessible strataofhumanexistence.So itwasgratifyingatfirstthatthisarticleentitled“TheLastFeastofHarlequin”seemedtoupholdtheThossmystique,andinanareaIpersonallyfoundcaptivating.

MuchofthecontentofthearticleIdidnotimmediatelycomprehend,givenitsauthor’s characteristic and often strategic obscurities. On first reading, the mostinterestingaspectofthisbriefstudy—the“notes”encompassedonlytwentypages—wasthegeneralmoodofthepiece.Thoss’seccentricitiesweredefinitelypresentinthesepages,butonlyasastrugglinginnerforcewhichwasdefinitelycontained—incarcerated,Imightsay—bythesomberrhythmicmovementsofhisproseandbysomegloomyreferencesheoccasionallycalledupon.Tworeferencesinparticularshared a common theme. One was a quotation from Poe’s “The ConquerorWorm,”whichThossemployedasarathersensationalepigraph.Thepointoftheepigraph,however,wasnowhereechoedinthetextofthearticlesave inanotherpassing reference. Thoss brought up the well-known genesis of the modern

Christmascelebration,whichofcoursedescendsfromtheRomanSaturnalia.Then,making it clear he had not yet observed the Mirocaw festival and had onlygathered its nature from various informants, he established that it too containedmany,evenmoreovert,elementsoftheSaturnalia.Nexthemadewhatseemedtomeatrivialandpurelylinguisticobservation,onethathadlesstodowithhismaincourseofargumentthanitdidwiththeequallyperipheralPoeepigraph.HebrieflymentionedthatanearlysectoftheSyrianGnosticscalledthemselves“Saturnians”andbelieved, amongother religiousheresies, thatmankindwas createdby angelswhowereinturncreatedbytheSupremeUnknown.Theangels,however,didnotpossessthepowertomaketheircreationanerectbeingandforatime itcrawledupontheearthlikeaworm.Eventually,theCreatorremediedthisgrotesquestateofaffairs.AtthetimeIsupposedthatthesymboliccorrespondencesofmankind’soriginsandultimateconditionbeingassociatedwithworms,combinedwithayear-endfestivalrecognizingthewinterdeathoftheearth,wasthegistofthisThossian“insight,”apoeticbutscientificallyvaluelessobservation.

OtherobservationshemadeontheMirocawfestivalwerealsostrictlyetic;inotherwords,theywerebasedonsecond-handsources,hearsaytestimony.Evenatthat juncture,however, I feltThossknewmore thanhedisclosed; and, as I laterdiscovered, he had indeed included information on certain aspects of Mirocawsuggestinghewasalready inpossessionof severalkeyswhich for themomenthewaskeepingsecurelyinhisownpocket.BythenI,too,possessedamostrevealingmorselofknowledge.Anotetothe“Harlequin”articleapprisedthereaderthatthepiece was only a fragment in rude form of a more wide-ranging work inpreparation.Thisworkwasneverseenbytheworld.Myformerprofessorhadnotpublished anything since his withdrawal from academic circulation some twentyyearsago.NowIsuspectedwherehehadgone.

ForthemanIhadstoppedonthestreetsofMirocawandfromwhomItriedtoobtaindirections,themanwiththedisconcertinglylethargicgaze,hadverymuchresembledasuperannuatedversionofDr.RaymondThoss.

3.

Andnow Ihavea confession tomake.Despitemy reasons forbeing enthusiasticaboutMirocawanditsmysteries,especiallyitsrelationshiptobothThossandmyowndeepestconcernsasascholar—Icontemplatedthedaysaheadofmewithnomore than a feeling of frigid numbness and often with a sense of profounddepression.YetIhadnoreasontobesurprisedatthisemotionalstate,whichhadlittle relevance to the outward events inmy life butwas determined by inwardconditionsthatworkedaccordingtotheirown,quiteenigmatic,seasonsandcycles.Formanyyears, at least sincemyuniversitydays, I have suffered from this darkmalady,thisrecurrentdespondencyinwhichIwouldbecomeburiedwhenitcametime for the earth to grow cold and bare and the skies heavy with shadows.Nevertheless, I pursued my plans, though somewhat mechanically, to visitMirocawduringitsfestivaldays,forIsuperstitiouslyhopedthatthisactivitymightdiminish the weight of my seasonal despair. InMirocawwould be parades andpartiesandtheopportunitytoplaytheclownonceagain.

ForweeksinadvanceIpracticedmyart,evenperfectinganewfeatofjugglingmagic,whichwasmyspecialforteinfoolery.Ihadmycostumescleaned,purchasedfreshmakeup, andwas ready. I receivedpermission from theuniversity to cancelsomeofmyclassespriortotheholiday,explainingthenatureofmyprojectandthenecessityofarrivinginthetownafewdaysbeforethefestivalbegan,inordertodosomepreliminaryresearch,establishinformants,andsoon.Actually,myplanwasto postpone any formal inquiry until after the festival and to involve myselfbeforehandasmuchaspossible in itsactivities. Iwould,ofcourse,keepa journalduringthistime.

There was one resource I did want to consult, however. Specifically, Ireturnedtothatoutstate librarytoexaminethose issuesof theMirocawCourierdatingfromDecembertwodecadesago.Onestoryinparticularconfirmedapoint

Thossmade in the“Harlequin”article, thoughtheevent it chronicledmusthavetakenplaceafterThosshadwrittenhisstudy.

TheCourier storyappearedtwoweeksafter the festivalhadended for thatyear and was concerned with the disappearance of a woman named ElizabethBeadle, the wife of Samuel Beadle, a hotel owner in Mirocaw. The countyauthorities speculated that this was another instance of the “holiday suicides”whichseemedtooccurwithinordinateseasonalregularityintheMirocawregion.Thoss documented this phenomenon in his “Harlequin” article, though I suspectthat today thesedeathswouldbeneatly categorizedunder theheading “seasonalaffectivedisorder.”Inanycase,theauthoritiessearchedahalf-frozenlakeneartheoutskirtsofMirocawwheretheyhadfoundmanysuccessfulsuicidesinyearspast.Thisyear,however,nobodywasdiscovered.AlongsidethearticlewasapictureofElizabeth Beadle. Even in the grainy microfilm reproduction one could detect acertainvibrancyandvitality inMrs.Beadle’s face.Thatahypothesisof “holidaysuicide” shouldbe so readilyposited to explainherdisappearance seemed strangeandinsomewayunjust.

Thoss,inhisbriefarticle,wrotethateveryyearchangesoccurredofamoralor spiritual cast which seemed to affect Mirocaw along with the usual wintermetamorphosis. He was not precise about its origin or nature but stated, intypicallymystifying fashion, that the effect of this “subseason” on the townwasconspicuouslynegative.Inadditiontothenumberofsuicidesactuallyaccomplishedduringthistime,therewasalsoariseintreatmentof“hypochondriacal”conditions,whichwashowthemedicalmenoftwentyyearspastcharacterizedthesecasesindiscussionswith Thoss. This state of affairs would graduallyworsen and finallyreach a climax during the days scheduled for the Mirocaw festival. Thossspeculated that given the secretive nature of small towns, the situation wasprobablyevenmoreintenselypronouncedthancasualinvestigationcouldreveal.

TheconnectionbetweenthefestivalandthisinsidioussubseasonalclimateinMirocawwasapointonwhichThossdidnot come toanyrigidconclusions.Hedid write, nevertheless, that these two “climatic aspects” had had a parallel

existenceinthetown’shistoryasfarbackasavailablerecordscoulddocument.Alate nineteenth-century history of Mirocaw County speaks of the town by itsoriginal name of New Colstead, and castigates the townspeople for holding a“ribaldandsoullessfeast”totheexclusionofnormalChristmasobservances.(Thosscomments that the historian had mistakenly fused two distinct aspects of theseason, their actual relationship being essentially antagonistic.) The “Harlequin”articledidnottracethefestivaltoitsearliestappearance(thismaynothavebeenpossible), though Thoss emphasized the New England origins of Mirocaw’sfounders. The festival, therefore, was one imported from this region and couldreasonablybeextendedat leastacentury;that is, if ithadnotbeenbroughtoverfromtheOldWorld,inwhichcaseitsrootswouldbecomeindefiniteuntilfurtherresearchcouldbedone.SurelyThoss’sallusiontotheSyrianGnosticssuggestedthelatterpossibilitycouldnotentirelyberuledout.

Butitseemedtobethefestival’slinktoNewEnglandthatnourishedThoss’sspeculations.Hewroteofthispatchofgeographyasifitwereanacceptableplacetoendthesearch.Forhim,theverywords“NewEngland”seemedtobestrippedofalltraditionalconnotationsandhadcometoimplynothinglessthanagatewaytoalllands,bothknownandsuspected,andeventoagesbeyondthecivilizedhistoryof the region. Having been educated partly inNew England, I could somewhatunderstand this sentimental exaggeration, for indeed there are places that seemarchaicbeyondchronologicalmeasure,appearingtotranscendrelativestandardsoftimeandachievingakindofabsoluteantiquitywhichcannotbelogicallyfathomed.ButhowthisvaguesuggestionrelatedtoasmalltownintheMidwestIcouldnotimagine.ThosshimselfobservedthattheresidentsofMirocawdidnotbetrayanymysteriouslyprimitiveconsciousness.Onthecontrary, theyappearedsuperficiallyunaware of the genesis of their winter merrymaking. That such a tradition hadendured through the years, however, even eclipsing the conventional Christmasholiday,revealedaprofoundawarenessofthefestival’smeaningandfunction.

IcannotdenythatwhatIhadlearnedabouttheMirocawfestivalinspiredmewith a trite sense of fate, especially given the involvement of such an important

figure frommypast asThoss. Itwas the first time inmy academic career that Iknewmyself to be better suited than anyone else to discern the truemeaning ofscattered data, even if I could only attribute this special authority to chancecircumstances.

Nevertheless,asIsatinthatlibraryonamorninginmid-DecemberIdoubtedforamomentthewisdomofsettingoutforMirocawratherthanreturninghome,where the more familiar rite de passage of winter depression awaited me. Myoriginalschemewastoavoidthecyclicalbluestheseasonheldforme,butitseemedthiswas also apartof thehistoryofMirocaw,onlyonamuch larger scale.Myemotional instability, however, was exactly what qualified me most for theparticular fieldworkahead, thoughIdidnottakeprideorconsolation inthe fact.Andtoretreatwouldhavebeentodenymyselfanopportunitythatmightneverofferitselfagain.Inretrospect,thereseemstohavebeennofortuitousresolutiontothedecisionIhadtomake.Asithappened,Iwentaheadtothetown.

4.

Justpastnoon,onDecember18,IstarteddrivingtowardMirocaw.Ablurofdull,earthen-coloredsceneryextendedineverydirection.Thesnowfallsof lateautumnhad been sparse, and only a fewwhite patches appeared in the harvested fieldsalong the highway.The cloudswere gray and abundant. Passing by a stretch offorest,Inoticedtheblack,raggedclumpsofabandonednestsclingingtothetwistedmeshofbarebranches.IthoughtIsawblackbirdsskitteringovertheroadahead,buttheywereonlydeadleavesandtheyflewintotheairasIdroveby.

IapproachedMirocawfromthesouth,enteringthetownfromthedirectionIhadleftitonmyvisittheprevioussummer.Thistookmeonceagainthroughthatpart of town which seemed to exist on the wrong side of some great invisiblebarrierdividingthedesirablesectionsofMirocawfromtheundesirable.Asluridas

this district had appeared tomeunder the summer sun, in the thin light of thatwinterafternoonitdegeneratedintoapalephantomofitself.Thefrailstoresandstarved-looking houses suggested a borderline region between the material andnonmaterialworlds,withonesardonicallywearingthemaskoftheother.IsawafewgauntpedestrianswhoturnedasIpassedby,thoughseeminglynotbecauseIpassedby,makingmywayuptothemainstreetofMirocaw.

Driving up the steep rise of Townshend Street, I found the sights therecomparativelywelcoming.The rolling avenues of the townwere in readiness forthe festival. Streetlightshad theirpoles raveledwith evergreen, the freshboughsproudlyconspicuousinabarrenseason.OnthedoorsofmanyofthebusinessesonTownshendwere holly wreaths, equally green but observably plastic. However,although therewas nothing unusual in this traditional greenery of the season, itsoon became apparent to me that Mirocaw had quite abandoned itself to thisparticular symbol of Yuletide. It was garishly in evidence everywhere. Thewindowsof stores andhouseswere framed in green lights, green streamershungdown from storefront awnings, and the beacons of the Red Rooster Bar werepeacock green floodlights. I supposed the residents of Mirocaw desired thesedecorations,buttheeffectwasoneofexcess.Aneerieemeraldhazepermeatedthetown,andfaceslookedslightlyreptilian.

At the time I assumed that the prodigious evergreen, holly wreaths, andcoloredlights(ifonlyofasinglecolor)demonstratedanemphasisonthevegetablesymbols of the Nordic Yuletide, which would inevitably be muddled into thewinter festival of any northern country just as they had been adopted for theChristmas season. In his “Harlequin” articleThosswrote of the pagan aspect ofMirocaw’s festival, likening it to the ritual of a fertility cult, with probableconnectionstochthonicdivinitiesatsometimeinthepast.ButThosshadmistaken,asIhad,whatwasonlypartofthefestival’ssignificanceforthewhole.

ThehotelatwhichIhadmadereservationswaslocatedonTownshend.Itwasanold building of brown brick, with an arched doorway and a pathetic copingintendedtoconveyanimpressionofneoclassicism.Ifoundaparkingspaceinfrontandleftmysuitcasesinthecar.

When I first entered the hotel lobby it was empty. I thought perhaps theMirocaw festival would have attracted enough visitors to at least bolster thebusiness of its only hotel, but it seemed I was mistaken. Tapping a little bell, Ileanedonthedeskandturnedtolookatasmall,traditionallydecoratedChristmastreeonatableneartheentranceway.Itwascompletewithshiny,egg-fragilebulbs;miniaturecandycanes;flat,laughingSantaswitharmswide;astarontopnoddingawkwardlyagainstthedelicateshoulderofanupperbranch;andcoloredlightsthatbloomedoutof flower-shapedsockets.Forsomereasonthisseemedtomeasorrylittlepiece.

“MayIhelpyou?”saidayoungwomanarrivingfromaroomadjacenttothelobby.

I must have been staring rather intently at her, for she looked away andseemedquiteuneasy.Icouldhardlyimaginewhattosaytoherorhowtoexplainwhat I was thinking. In person she immediately radiated a chilling brilliance ofmannerandexpression.Butifthiswomanhadnotcommittedsuicidetwentyyearsbefore,asthenewspaperarticlehadsuggested,neitherhadsheagedinthattime.

“Sarah,”calledamasculinevoice fromthe invisibleheightsofa stairway.Atall,middle-agedman camedown the steps. “I thought youwere in your room,”said the man, whom I took to be Samuel Beadle. Sarah, not Elizabeth, Beadleglancedsidewaysinmydirectiontoindicatetoherfatherthatshewasconductingthe business of the hotel. Beadle apologized tome, and then excused the two ofthemforamomentwhiletheywentofftoonesidetocontinuetheirexchange.

Ismiledandpretendedeverythingwasnormal,whiletryingtoremainwithinearshotoftheirconversation.Theyspokeintonesthatsuggestedtheirconflictwasa familiar one: Beadle’s overprotective concern with his daughter’s whereaboutsandSarah’s frustratedunderstanding of certain restrictions placeduponher.The

conversationended,andSarahascendedthestairs,turningforamomenttogivemeafacialpantomimeofapologyfortheunprofessionalscenethathadjusttakenplace.

“Now,sir,whatcanIdoforyou?”Beadleasked,almostdemanded.“Yes,Ihaveareservation.Actually,I’madayearly,ifthatdoesn’tpresenta

problem.” I gave the hotel the benefit of the doubt that its businessmight havebeensecretlyflourishing.

“Noproblematall,sir,”hesaid,presentingmewiththeregistrationform,andthenabrass-coloredkeydanglingfromaplasticdiscbearingthenumber44.

“Luggage?”“Yes,it’sinmycar.”“I’llgiveyouahandwiththat.”WhileBeadlewassettlingmeinmyfourth-floorroomitseemedanopportune

moment to broach the subject of the festival, the holiday suicides, and perhaps,dependinguponhisreaction,thefateofhiswife.Ineededarespondentwhohadlived in the town for a goodmany years andwho could enlightenme about theattitudeofMirocavianstowardtheirseasonofsea-greenlights.

“Thisisjustfine,”Isaidaboutthecleanbutsomberroom.“Niceview.IcanseethebrightgreenlightsofMirocawjustfinefromuphere.Isthetownusuallyalldeckedoutlikethis?Forthefestival,Imean.”

“Yes,sir,forthefestival,”herepliedmechanically.“I imagineyou’llprobablybegettingquitea fewofusout-of-towners inthe

nextcoupledays.”“Couldbe.Isthereanythingelse?”“Yes,thereis.Iwonderifyoucouldtellmesomethingaboutthefestivities.”“Suchas…”“Well,youknow,theclownsandsoforth.”“Onlyclownsherearetheonesthat’re…well,pickedout,I

supposeyouwouldsay.”“Idon’tunderstand.”“Excuseme,sir.I’mverybusyrightnow.Isthereanythingelse?”

Icouldthinkofnothingatthemomenttoperpetuateourconversation.Beadlewishedmeagoodstayandleft.

I unpackedmy suitcases. In addition to regular clothing I had also broughtalong some of the items from my clown’s wardrobe. Beadle’s comment that theclowns ofMirocawwere “picked out” left mewondering exactly what purposethesestreetmasqueradersservedinthefestival.Theclownfigurehashadsomanymeaningsindifferenttimesandcultures.Thejolly,well-lovedjokerfamiliartomostpeople is actually but one aspect of this protean creature.Madmen, hunchbacks,amputees, and other abnormals were once considered natural clowns; theywereelected to fulfill a comic rolewhich could allow others to see them as ludicrousrather than as terrible reminders of the forces of disorder in the world. Butsometimesacheerless jesterwasrequiredtodrawattentiontothissamedisorder,asinthecaseofKingLear’smorbidandhonestfool,whoofcoursewaseventuallyhanged,andsomuchforhisclownishwisdom.Clownshaveoftenhadambiguousand sometimes contradictory roles to play. Thus, I knew enough not to brashlyjumpintocostumeandcryout,“HereIamagain!”

ThatfirstdayinMirocawIdidnotstrayfarfromthehotel.Ireadandrestedfor a fewhours and thenate at anearbydiner.Through thewindowbesidemytableIwatchedthewinternightturnthesoftgreenglowofthetownintoaharshand almost totally new color as it contrasted with the darkness. The streets ofMirocawseemedtomeunusuallybusyforasmalltownatevening.Yetitwasnotthe kind of activity one normally sees before an approaching Christmas holiday.Thiswas not a crowd of bustling shoppers loadedwith bright bags of presents.Theirarmswereempty,theirhandsshoveddeepintheirpocketsagainstthecold,whichneverthelesshadnotdriventhemtothesolitudeoftheirpresumablywarmhouses. Iwatchedthementerandexit storeafter storewithoutbuyinganything.Manymerchantsremainedopenlate,andeventheplacesthatwereclosedhadlefttheirneonsigns illuminated.Thefacesthatpassedthewindowofthedinerwerepossiblyjuststiffenedbythecold,Ithought;frozenintodeepfrownsandnothingelse.InthesamewindowIsawthereflectionofmyownface.Itwasnotthefaceof

an adept clown; itwas slack and flabby and at thatmoment seemed the face ofsomeonelessthanalive.OutsidewasthetownofMirocaw,itsstreetsdippingandrisingwithalunaticseverity,itscitizenspackingthesidewalks,itsheartbathedingreen: as promising a field of professional and personal challenge as I had everencountered—and Iwasbored to thepointofdread. Ihurriedback tomyhotelroom.

“Mirocawhas another coldnesswithin its cold,” Iwrote inmy journal thatnight. “Another set of buildings and streets that exists behind the visible town’sfacadelikeaworldofdisgracefulbackalleys.”Iwentonlikethisforaboutapage,acrosswhichIfinallyengravedabig“X.”ThenIwenttobed.

InthemorningIleftmycaratthehotelandwalkedtowardthemainbusinessdistrictafewblocksaway.MinglingwiththegoodpeopleofMirocawseemedlikethe proper thing to do at that point in my scientific sojourn. But as I beganlaboriouslywalkingupTownshend(thesidewalkswerecrampedwithwanderingpedestrians), a glimpse of someone suddenly replacedmy haphazard planwith amorespecificandimmediateone.Throughthecrowdandaboutfifteenpacesaheadwasmygoal.

“Dr.Thoss,”Icalled.Hisheadalmostseemedtoturnandlookbackinresponsetomyshout,butI

could not be certain. I pushed past several warmly wrapped bodies and green-scarvednecks,onlytofindthattheobjectofmypursuitappearedtobemaintainingthe same distance from me, though I did not know if this was being donedeliberatelyornot.Atthenextcorner,thedark-coatedThossabruptlyturnedrightontoasteepstreetwhichleddownwarddirectlytowardthedilapidatedsouthendofMirocaw.WhenIreachedthecornerIlookeddownthesidewalkandcouldseehimveryclearlyfromabove.Ialsosawhowhemanagedtostaysofaraheadofmeinamobthathad impededmyownprogress.For somereasonthepeopleonthesidewalkmade room so that he couldmove past them easily, without the usualjostling of bodies. It was not a dramatic physical avoidance, though it seemed

nonetheless intentional. Fighting the tight fabric of the throng, I continued tofollowThoss,losingandregainingsightofhim.

BythetimeIreachedthebottomoftheslopingstreetthecrowdhadthinnedoutconsiderably,andafterwalkingablockorsofartherIfoundmyselfpracticallyalonepedestrianpacingbehindadistantfigurethatIhopedwasstillThoss.Hewasnowwalkingquiteswiftlyandinawaythatseemedtoacknowledgemypursuitofhim,thoughreallyitfeltasifhewereleadingmeasmuchasIwaschasinghim.Icalled his name a fewmore times at a volume he could not have failed to hear,assumingthatdeafnesswasnotoneofthechangestohavecomeoverhim;hewas,afterall,notayoungman,evenamiddle-agedoneanylonger.

Thoss suddenly crossed in themiddle of the street.Hewalked a fewmorestepsandenteredasignlessbrickbuildingbetweenaliquorstoreandarepairshopofsomekind.Inthe“Harlequin”articleThosshadmentionedthatthepeoplelivingin this sectionofMirocawmaintained theirownbusinesses, and that thesewerepatronized almost exclusively by residents of the area. I could well believe thisstatementwhenI lookedatthese littleshedsofcommerce, fortheyhadthesamebadlyweatheredappearanceastheirclientele.Theformidableshoddinessofthesebuildingsnotwithstanding,IfollowedThossintotheplainbrickshellofwhathadbeen,orpossiblystillwas,adiner.

Inside it was unusually dark. Even before my eyes made the adjustment Isensedthatthiswasnotathrivingrestaurantcozilyclutteredwithchairsandtables—aswastheestablishmentwhereIhadeatenthenightbefore—butaplacewithonlyafewdisarrangedfurnishings,andverycold.Itseemedcolder,infact,thanthewinterstreetsoutside.

“Dr.Thoss?”Icalledtowardatablenearthecenterofthelongroom.Perhapsfour or five were sitting around the table, with some others blending into thedimness behind them. Scattered across the tabletop were some books and loosepapers.Seatedtherewasanoldmanindicatingsomethinginthepagesbeforehim,but it was not Thoss. Beside him were two youths whose wholesome featuresdistinguished themfromthegrimwearinessof theothers. Iapproachedthe table

andtheyall lookedupatme.Noneofthemshowedaglimmerofemotionexceptthetwoboys,whoexchangedworriedandguilt-riddenglanceswitheachother,asif theyhad justbeendiscovered in some shameful act.Theyboth suddenlyburstfromthetableandranintothedarkbackground,wherealightappearedbrieflyastheyexitedbyabackdoor.

“I’msorry,”Isaiddiffidently.“IthoughtIsawsomeoneIknewcomeinhere.”They said nothing. Out of a back room others began to emerge, no doubt

interested in the source of the commotion. In a few moments the room wascrowdedwiththesetramp-likefigures,allofthemgazingemptilyinthedimness.Iwasnotatthispointfrightenedofthem;atleastIwasnotafraidtheywoulddomeanyphysicalharm.Actually,Ifeltas if itwasquitewithinmypowertopummelthemeasily intosubmission,theirmousyfacesalmost invitingasuccessionof firmblows.Butthereweresomanyofthem.

Theyslidslowlytowardmeinawormymass.Theireyesseemedemptyandunfocused, and I wondered a moment if theywere even aware of my presence.Nevertheless,Iwasthecenteruponwhichtheirlethargicshufflingconverged,theirshoes scuffing softly along the bare floor. I began to deliver a number of hastyinanities as they continued to press toward me, their weak and unexpectedlyodorlessbodiesnudgingagainstmine.(IunderstoodnowwhythepeoplealongthesidewalksseemedinstinctivelytoavoidThoss.)Unseenlegsbecameentangledwithmyown;Istaggeredandthenregainedmybalance.Thissuddenmovementarousedme from a kind of mesmeric daze into which I must have fallen without beingaware of it. I had intended to leave that dreary place long before events hadreached such a juncture, but for some reason I could not focus my intentionsstronglyenoughtocausemyselftoact.Mymindhadbeendriftingfartherawayastheseabjectthingsapproached.InasuddensurgeofpanicIpushedthroughtheirsoftranksandwasoutside.

The open air revivedme tomy former alertness, and I immediately startedpacingswiftlyupthehill.IwasnolongersurethatIhadnotsimplyimaginedwhathadseemed,andatthesametimedidnotseem,likeaperilousmoment.Hadtheir

movementsbeendirectedtowardaharmfulassault,orweretheytryingmerelytointimidateme?AsIreachedthegreen-glazedmainstreetofMirocawIreallycouldnotdeterminewhathadjusthappened.

The sidewalkswere still jammedwith amultitudeof pedestrians,whonowseemedmorelivelythantheyhadbeenonlyashorttimebefore.Therewasakindof vitality that could only be attributed to the imminent festivities.A group ofyoungmenhadbeguncelebratingprematurelyandstrodenoisilyacrossthestreetatmidpoint, obviously intoxicated. From the laughter and joking among the stillsobercitizensIgatheredthat,mardi-grasstyle,publicdrunkennesswaswithinthetraditionsofthiswinterfestival.IlookedforanythingtoindicatethebeginningsoftheStreetMasquerade,but sawnothing:nobrightlygarbedharlequinsor snow-whitepierrots.WeretheceremoniesevennowinpreparationforthecoronationoftheWinterQueen?“TheWinterQueen,”Iwroteinmyjournal.“Figureoffertilityinvestedwithsymbolicpowersofrevivalandprosperity.Electedinthemannerofahigh school prom queen. Check for possible consort figure in the form of arepresentativefromtheunderworld.”

Inthepre-darknesshoursofDecember19 I sat inmyhotel roomandwroteand thought and organized. I did not feel too badly, all things considered. Theholidayexcitementwhichwassteadilyrisinginthestreetsbelowmywindowwasdefinitelyinfectingme.Iforcedmyselftotakeashortnapinanticipationofalongnight.WhenIawoke,Mirocaw’sannualfeastwasinfullmotion.

5.

Practicallyboundingfrommybedtothesoundsofbustlingandcarousingoutside,Iwent to the window and looked out over the town. It seemed all the lights ofMirocawwereshining,saveinthatsectiondownthehillwhichbecamepartoftheblack void of winter. And now the town’s greenish tinge was even more

pronounced,spreadingeverywherelikeagreatgreenrainbowthathadmeltedfromthe sky and endured, phosphorescent, into the night. In the streets was thebrightnessof anartificial spring.ThebywaysofMirocawvibratedwithactivity:onanearbycornerabrassbandblared;maraudingcarsblewtheirhornsandweresometimesmountedbylaughingpedestrians;amanemergedfromtheRedRoosterBar, threwuphisarms,andcrowed. I lookedcloselyat the individualcelebrants,searchingforthevestmentsofclowns.Soon,delightedly,Isawthem.Thecostumewas redandwhite,withmatching cap, and the facepaintedanoblealabaster. Italmostseemedtobeaclownishincarnationofthatwhite-beardedandblack-bootedChristmasfool.

This particular fool, however, was not receiving the affection and respectusually accorded toaSantaClaus.Mypoor fellow-clownwas in themiddleof acircleofrevelerswhowerepushinghimbackandforthfromonetotheother.Theobject of this abuse seemed to accept it somewhatwillingly, but this little gameneverthelessappearedtohavehumiliationasitspurpose.“Onlyclownsherearetheonesthat’repickedout,”echoedBeadle’svoiceinmymemory.“Pickedon”seemedclosertothetruth.

Packing myself in some heavy clothes, I went out into the green gleamingstreets.NotfarfromthehotelIwasstumbledintobyacharacterwithawideblueandredgrinandbrightbaggyclothes.Actuallyhehadbeenshovedinmydirectionbysomeyoungmenoutsideadrugstore.He losthis footingontheslicksidewalkandtumbleddownintoabankofsnowalongthestreet.

“Seethefreak,”saidanobeseanddrunkenfellow.“Seethefreakfall.”Myfirstresponsewasanger,andthenfearasIsawtwoothersflankingthe

fatdrunk.TheywalkedtowardmeandItensedmyselfforaconfrontation.“Thisisadisgrace,”onesaid,theneckofawinebottleheldlooselyinhisleft

hand.But it was not to me they were speaking; it was to the clown. His three

persecutorshelpedhimupwithasudden jerkandthensplashedwine inhis face.Theyignoredmealtogether.

“Lethimloose,”thefatonesaid.“Crawlaway,freak.Oh,heflies!”Theclowntrottedoff,becominglostinthethrong.“Waitaminute,”Isaidtotherowdytrio,whohadstartedlumberingaway.I

quicklydecidedthatitwouldprobablybefutiletoaskthemtoexplainwhatIhadjustwitnessed,especiallyamidthenoiseandconfusionofthefestivities.InmybestjovialfashionIproposedweallgosomeplacewhereIcouldbuythemeachadrink.TheyhadnoobjectionandinashortwhilewewereallsqueezedaroundatableintheRedRooster.

Soonafterwewereserved,ItoldthemthatIwasfromoutoftownandaskediftheycouldexplainsomethings…Ididnotunderstandabouttheirfestival.

“Idon’tthinkthere’sanythingtounderstand,”thefatonesaid.“It’sjustwhatyousee.”

Iaskedhimaboutthepeopledressedasclowns.“Them?They’rethefreaks.It’stheirturnthisyear.Everyonetakestheirturn.

Nextyearitmightbemine.Oryours,”hesaid,pointingatoneofhisfriendsacrossthetable.“Andwhenwefindoutwhichoneyouare—”

“You’renotsmartenough,”saidthedefiantpotentialfreak.Thiswasanimportantpoint:thefactthatindividualswhoplayedtheclowns

remained, or at least attempted to remain, anonymous. This arrangementwouldhelpremoveinhibitionsaresidentofMirocawmighthaveaboutabusinghisownneighbororevenafamilyrelation.FromwhatI laterobserved,theextentofthisabusedidnotgobeyondakindofplayfulroughhousing.Andevenso,itwasonlytheoccasionalgroupofrowdieswhoactuallytookadvantageofthisaspectofthefestival,themajorityofthecitizensverymuchcontenttostayonthesidelines.

Asfarasbeingabletoilluminatethemeaningofthiscustom,mythreeyoungfriendswerequiteuseless.Tothemitwasjustamusement,asI imagineitwastothe majority of Mirocavians. This was understandable. I suppose the averagepersonwouldnotbeabletoexplainexactlyhowtheprofoundlyfamiliarChristmasholidaycametobecelebratedinitspresentform.

I left thebar alone andnotunaffectedby thedrinks I had consumed there.

Outside, the generalmerrymaking continued. Loudmusic emanated from severalquarters. Mirocaw had fully transformed itself from a sedate small town to anenclaveof Saturnaliawithin thedark immensity of awinternight.ButSaturn isalsotheplanetarysymbolofmelancholyandsterility,aclashofoppositescontainedwithin that single word. And as I wandered half-drunkenly down the street, Idiscoveredthattherewasaconflictwithinthewinterfestivalitself.Thisdiscoveryindeed appeared to be that secret keywhichThosswithheld in his study of thetown.Oddlyenough,itwasthroughmyunfamiliaritywiththeoutwardnatureofthefestivalthatIcametoknowitstruenature.

Iwasminglingwiththecrowdonthestreet,warmlyenjoyingtheconfusionaroundme,when I saw a strangely designed creature lingering on the corner upahead.ItwasoneoftheMirocawclowns.Itsclotheswereshabbyandnondescript,almostinthestyleofatramp-typeclown,butnothumorouslyexaggeratedenough.The face, though, made up for the lackluster costume. I had never seen such astrange conception for a clown’s countenance. The figure stood beneath a dimstreetlight,andwhenitturneditsheadmywayIfeltasenseofrecognition.Thethin, smooth, and pale head; the wide eyes; the oval-shaped features resemblingnothing so much as the skull-faced, screaming creature in that famous painting(memory failsme).This clownish imitation rivaled the original in summoning aneffect of stricken horror and despair. It had an inhuman likenessmore proper tosomethingundertheearththanuponit.

FromthefirstmomentIsawthiscreature, I thoughtofthose inhabitantsoftheghettodownthehill.Therewasthesamenauseatingpassivityandlanguorinitsbearing.PerhapsifIhadnotbeendrinkingearlierIwouldnothavebeenboldenoughtotaketheactionIdid.Idecidedtojoininoneoftheupstandingtraditionsof thewinter festival, for it annoyedme to see thismorbid impostor of a clownstanding up. When I reached the corner I laughingly pushed myself into thecreature—“Whoops!”—whostumbledbackwardandendeduponthesidewalk.Ilaughedagainandlookedaroundforapprovalfrommyfellowmerrymakersinthevicinity.Noone,however,seemedtoappreciateorevenacknowledgewhatIhad

done.Theydidnot laughwithmeorpointwithamusement,butonlypassedby,perhapswalkingalittlefasteruntiltheyweresomedistancefromthisstreetcornerincident.IrealizedinstantlyIhadviolatedsometacitruleofbehavior,thoughIhadthoughtmyactionwellwithinthecommonpractice.TheideaoccurredtomethatImight even be apprehended and prosecuted forwhat in any other circumstanceswas certainly a criminal act. I turned around to help the clown back to his feet,hoping to somehow redeem my offense, but the creature was gone. Solemnly Iwalkedawayfromthesceneofmyinadvertentcrimeandsoughtotherstreetsawayfromitswitnesses.

AlongthevariousbackavenuesofMirocawIwandered,pausingexhaustedlyatonepointtositatthecounterofasmallsandwichshopthatwaspackedwithcustomers.Iorderedacupofcoffeetorevivemyinebriatedsystem.Warmingmyhandsaroundthecupandsippingslowlyfromit,Iwatchedthepeopleoutsideasthey passed the frontwindow. Itwaswell aftermidnight but the thick flow ofpassersby gave no indication that anyone was going home early. A carnival ofprofiles filedpast thewindowand Iwas content simply to sit back andobserve,untilfinallyoneofthesefacesmademestart.ItwasthatfrightfullittleclownIhadroughedup earlier. But although its facewas familiar in its ghastly aspect, therewas something different about it. And I wondered that there should be twohideousfreaks.

Quicklypayingthemanatthecounter,Idashedouttogetasecondglimpseoftheclown,whowasnownowheretobeseen.Iwonderedhowitcouldhavemadeits way so easily out of sight, unless the dense crowd along the sidewalk hadinstinctivelyallowedthiscreaturetopassunhinderedthroughitsmassiveranks,asitdid forThoss. In theprocessof searching for thisparticular freak, IdiscoveredthatinterspersedamongthecelebratingpopulaceofMirocaw,whichincludedthesanctionedfestivalclowns,therewasnotoneortwo,butaconsiderablenumberofthesepale,wraithlikecreatures.Andtheyalldriftedalongthestreetsunmolestedbyeventherowdiestofrevelers.Inowunderstoodoneofthetaboosofthefestival.Theseotherclownswerenottobedisturbedandshouldevenbeavoided,muchas

weretheresidentsoftheslumattheedgeoftown.Nevertheless,Ifeltinstinctivelythat the twogroupsof clownswere somehow identifiedwitheachother, even ifthe ghetto clownswere notwelcome atMirocaw’swinter festival. Indeed, theymightlegitimatelyberegardedaspartofthecommunityandcelebratingtheseasonin their own way. To all appearances, this group of melancholy mummersconstitutednothing lessthananentirely independentfestival—afestivalwithinafestival.

Returning to my room, I entered my suppositions into the journal I waskeepingforthisventure.Thefollowingareexcerpts:

ThereisasuperstitiousnessdisplayedbytheresidentsofMirocawwithregardtothese people from the slum section, particularly as they lately appear in thosedreadfulfacessignifyingtheirownfestival.Whatistherelationshipbetweenthesesimultaneouscelebrations?Didoneprecedetheother?Ifso,which?Myopinionatthispoint—andIclaimnoconclusivenessforit—isthatMirocaw’swinterfestivalis the latermanifestation, that it appeared after the festival of thosedepressinglypallid clowns, in order to cover it up ormitigate its effect. The holiday suicidescome to mind, and the “subclimate” Thoss wrote about, as well as thedisappearance of Elizabeth Beadle twenty years ago, andmy encounter this verydaywith thepariah clan existingoutsideyetwithin the community.OfmyownexperiencewiththisemotionallydeleterioussubseasonIwouldrathernotspeakatthis time.Stillnotable to saywhetherornotmyusualwintermelancholy is thecause.Onthegeneralsubjectofmentalhealth,ImustconsiderThoss’sbookabouthis stay in a psychiatric hospital (inwesternMassachusetts, almost sure of that.Check on this book andMirocaw’sNew England roots). Thewinter solstice istomorrow,albeitsometimepastmidnight. It is,ofcourse,thedayoftheyearonwhichnighthourssurpassdaylighthoursbythegreatestmargin.Notewhatthishastodowiththesuicidesandariseinpsychicdisorder.RecallingThoss’slistofdocumentedsuicidesinhisarticle,thereseemedtobearecurrenceofspecificfamilynames,asthereverylikelymightbeforanykindofdatacollectedinasmalltown.

AmongthesenameswasaBeadleortwo.Perhaps,then,thereisahereditarybasisforthesuicideswhichhasnothingtodowithThoss’smysticalsubclimate,whichisa colorful idea to be sure and one that seems fitting for this town of variousoutwardandinwardaspects,butisnotaconceptionthatcanbesubstantiated.

Onethingthatseemscertain,however, is thedivisionofMirocawintotwoverydistinct typesof citizenry, resulting in two festivalsand theappearanceof similarclowns—atermnowused inanextremely loose sense.But there is a connection,andIbelieveIhavesomeideaofwhatitis.Isaidbeforethatthenormalresidentsofthetownregardthosefromtheghetto,andespeciallytheirclownfigures,withsuperstition.Yet it’smorethanthat:thereisfear,perhapshatred—theparticularkind of hatred resulting from some powerful and irrational memory. WhatthreatensMirocawIthinkIcanverywellunderstand.Irecalltheincidentearliertoday in that vacant diner. “Vacant” is the appropriate word here. Thecongregation of that half-lit room formed less a presence than an absence, evenconsideringtheoppressivenumberof them.Thoseeyes thatdidnotorcouldnotfocusonanything,thepininglassitudeoftheirfaces,thelazymarchoftheirfeet.Iwas spiritually drained when I ran out of there. I then understood why thesepeopleandtheiractivitiesareavoided.

IcannotquestionthewisdomofthoseancestralMirocavianswhobeganthetradition of thewinter festival and gave the town a pretext for celebration andsocial intercourseatatimewhentheconsequencesofbrooding isolationaremostsevere,thoselongestanddarkestdaysofthesolstice.AmoodofChristmasjovialityobviouslywouldnotbesufficienttocounterthemenaceofthisseason.Butevenso,therearestillthesuicidesofindividualswhoaresomehowcutoff,Iimagine,fromthevitalizingactivitiesofthefestival.

It is the nature of this insidious subseason that seems to determine theoutwardformsofMirocaw’swinterfestival:theoptimisticgreeneryinaperiodofgraydormancy; the fertilepromiseof theWinterQueen;and,most interestingtomymind, the clowns—the bright clowns ofMirocawwho are treated so badly.

They appear to serve as surrogate figures for those dark-eyed mummers of theslums. Since the latter are feared for some power or influence they possess, theymay still be symbolically confronted and conquered through their counterparts,who are elected for precisely this function. If I am right about this, Iwonder towhat extent there is a conscious awareness among the town’s populace of thisindirectshowofaggression.ThosethreeyoungmenIspokewithtonightdidnotseem to possess much insight beyond seeing that therewas a certain amount ofrobustfuninthefestival’stradition.Forthatmatter,howmuchawarenessisthereontheothersideofthesetwoantagonisticfestivals?Toohorribletothinkofsuchathing,butImustwonderif,foralltheirapparentaimlessness,thoseinhabitantsoftheghettoarenottheonlyoneswhoknowwhattheyareabout.Nodenyingthatbehind those inhumanly limp expressions there seems to be a kind of obnoxiousintelligence.

AsIwobbledfromstreettostreettonight,watchingthoseoval-mouthedclowns,IcouldnothelpfeelingthatallthemerrymakinginMirocawwassomehowallowedonlybytheirsufferance.ThisIhopeisnomorethanafancifulThossianintuition,thesortofideathatiscuriousandthought-provokingwithouteverseemingtogainthebenefitofconfirmation.Iknowmymindisnotentirelylucid,butIfeelthatitmay be possible to penetrate Mirocaw’s many complexities and illuminate thehiddensideof the festival season. Inparticular Imust look for the significanceofthe other festival. Is it also some kind of fertility celebration?Fromwhat I haveseen, the tenor of this “celebrating” sub-group is one of anti-fertility, if anything.Howhavetheymanagedtokeepfromdyingoutcompletelyovertheyears?Howdotheymaintaintheirnumbers?

ButIwastootiredtoformulateanymoreofmysoddenspeculations.Fallingontomybed,Isoonbecamelostindreamsofstreetsandfaces.

6.

Iwas, of course, slightlyhungoverwhen Iwokeup late thenextmorning.Thefestival was still going strong, and blaring music outside roused me from anightmare. Itwas a parade.A number of floats proceeded downTownshend, afamiliar color predominating. There were theme floats of pilgrims and Indians,cowboysandIndians,andclownsofanorthodoxtype.Inthemiddleof itallwastheWinterQueenherself,freezingatopanicythrone.Shewavedinalldirections.Ievenimaginedshewavedupatmydarkwindow.InthefirstfewgroggymomentsofwakefulnessIhadnosympathywithmyexcitationofthepreviousnight.ButIdiscoveredthatmyformerenthusiasmhadmerelylaindormant,andsoonreturnedwithanevengreaterintensity.Neverbeforehadmymindandsensesbeensoactiveduring this usually inert time of year. At home I would have been playinglugubrious old records and looking out the window quite a bit. I was terriblygrateful ina completelyabstractway formycommitment toameaningfulmania.AndIwaseagertogettoworkafterIhadhadsomebreakfastatthecoffeeshop.

WhenIgotbacktomyroomIdiscoveredthedoorwasunlocked.Andtherewassomethingwrittenonthedressermirror.Thewritingwasredandgreasy,asifdone with a clown’s make-up pencil—my own, I realized. I read the legend, orrather I should say riddle, several times: “Whatburies itself before it is dead?” Ilooked at it for quite a while, very shaken at how vulnerable my holidayfortificationswere.Wasthissupposedtobeawarningofsomekind?Athreattothe effect that if I persisted in a certain course I would end up prematurelyinterred? I would have to be careful, I told myself. My resolution was to letnothingdetermefromtheinspiredstrategyIhadconceivedformyself.Iwipedthemirrorclean,foritwasnowneededforotherpurposes.

Ispenttherestofthedaydevisingaveryspecialcostumeandtheappropriatefacetogowithit.Ieasilyshabbiedupmyovercoatwithatornpocketortwoandacomplete set of stains.Combinedwith blue jeans and a pair of rather scuffed-up

shoes, I had a passable costume for a derelict. The face, however, was moredifficult, for I had to experiment frommemory.Conjuring amental image of theshriekingpierrotinthatpainting(TheScream,Inowrecall),helpedmequiteabit.AtnightfallIexitedthehotelbythebackstairway.

Itwas strange towalk down the crowded street in this gruesome disguise.ThoughIthoughtIwouldfeelconspicuous,theactualexperiencewasveryclose,Iimagined,tooneofcompleteinvisibility.NoonelookedatmeasIstrolledby,orasthey strolledby,or aswe strolledbyeachother. Iwasaphantom—perhaps theghostoffestivalspast,orthoseyettocome.

Ihadnoclear ideawheremydisguisewouldtakemethatnight,onlyvagueexpectationsofgaining the confidenceofmy fellowspectersandpossibly in somewaycomingtoknowtheir secrets.Forawhile Iwouldsimplywanderaround inthatlackadaisicalmannerIhadlearnedfromthem,followingtheirleadinanywaytheymight indicate.And for themostpart thismeantdoing almostnothing anddoingitsilently.IfIpassedoneofmykindonthesidewalktherewasnospeaking,noexchangeofknowinglooks,norecognitionatallthatIwasawareof.Wewerethereon the streetsofMirocawto createapresenceandnothingmore.At leastthisishowIcametofeelaboutit.AsIdriftedalongwithmybodilessinvisibility,Ifeltmyselfmoreandmorebecominganempty,floatingshape,seeingwithoutbeingseen andwalkingwithout the interference of those grosser creatureswho sharedmy world. It was not an experience completely without interest and evenenjoyment.Theclown’sshibbolethof“Hereweareagain”tookonanewmeaningformeasIfeltmyselfanovitiateofamorerarefiedorderofharlequinry.Andverysoontheopportunitytomakefurtherprogressalongthispathpresenteditself.

Going theoppositedirection,downthe street, apickup truck slowlypassed,gentlypartingaseaofziggingandzaggingcelebrants.Thecargointhebackofthistruckwascurious,foritwasmadeupentirelyofmyfellowsectarians.Attheendoftheblockthetruckstoppedandanotherofthemboardeditoverthebackgate.Oneblockdown I sawstill anothergeton.Then the truckmadeaU-turnat anintersectionandheadedinmydirection.

IstoodatthecurbasIhadseentheothersdo.Iwasnotsurethetruckwouldpickmeup,thinkingthatsomehowtheyknewIwasan impostor.Thetruckdid,however, slow down, almost coming to a stop when it reached me. The otherswere crowded on the floor of the truck bed.Most of themwere just staring atnothingwiththeusualindifferenceIhadcometoexpectfromtheirkind.Butafewactuallyglancedatmewithsomeanticipation.ForasecondIhesitated,notsureIwantedtopursuethisruseanyfurther.Atthelastmoment,though,someimpulsesent me climbing up the back of the truck and squeezing myself in among theothers.

There were only a few more to pick up before the truck headed for theoutskirtsofMirocawandbeyond.At first I tried tomaintain a clearorientationwithrespecttothetown.Butaswetookturnafterturnthroughthedarknessofnarrowcountryroads,Ifoundmyselfunabletopreserveanysenseofdirection.Themajorityoftheothersinthebackofthetruckexhibitednoapparentawarenessoftheir fellow passengers.Guardedly, I looked from face to ghostly face.A few ofthem spoke in shortwhispered phrases to others close by. I could notmake outwhattheyweresayingbutthetoneoftheirvoiceswasoneofinnocentnormalcy,asiftheywerenotofthehardenedslum-herdofMirocaw.Perhaps,Ithought,thesewerethrill-seekerswhohad disguised themselves as I had done, or, more likely, initiates of some kind.Possibly they had received prior instructions at suchmeetings as I had stumbledontothedaybefore.ItwasalsolikelythatamongthiscrewwerethoseveryboysIhadfrightenedintoaprecipitateexitfromthatolddiner.

The truckwasnowspeedingalonga fairlyopenstretchof country,headingtowardthosehigherhillsthatsurroundedthenowdistanttownofMirocaw.Theicywindwhippedaroundus,andIcouldnotkeepmyselffromtremblingwithcold.Thisdefinitelybetrayedmeasoneofthenewcomersamongthegroup,forthetwobodiesthatpressedagainstminewererigidlystillandevenseemedtoberadiatingafrigidityoftheirown.Iglancedaheadatthedarknessintowhichwewererapidlyprogressing.

Wehad left all open countrybehindusnow,and the roadwas enclosedbythickwoods.Themassofbodiesinthetruckleanedintooneanotheraswebegantravelingup a steep incline.Aboveus, at the top of thehill,were lights shiningsomewherewithinthewoods.Whentheroadleveledoff,thetruckmadeanabruptturn, steering into what looked like a great ditch. There was an unpaved path,however,uponwhichthetruckproceededtowardtheglowingintheneardistance.

This glowing became brighter and sharper as we approached it, flickeringupon the trees and revealing stark detail where there had formerly been onlysmoothdarkness.As the truckpulled intoa clearingandcametoa stop, I sawalooseassemblyoffigures,manyofwhichheldlanternsthatbeamedwithadazzlingandfrostylight.Istoodupinthebackofthetrucktounboardastheothersweredoing.GlancingaroundfromthatheightIsawapproximatelythirtymoreofthosecadaverousclownsmillingabout.Oneofmyfellowpassengersspiedmelingeringinthe truck and in a strangely high-pitched whisper told me to hurry, explainingsomethingaboutthe“apexofdarkness.”Ithoughtagainaboutthissolsticenight;itwas technically the longest period of darkness of the year, even if not by a verysignificantmarginfrommanyotherwinternights.Itstruesignificance,though,wasrelatedtoconsiderationshavinglittletodowitheitherstatisticsorthecalendar.

Iwentovertotheplacewheretheotherswereformingintoatightercrowd,whichbetrayedasenseofexpectancy inthesubtlegesturesandexpressionsof itsindividualmembers.Glanceswerenowexchanged,thehandofonelightlytouchedtheshoulderofanother,andapairofcircledeyesgazedovertowheretwofiguresweresettingtheirlanternsonthegroundaboutsixfeetapart.Theilluminationofthese lanterns revealed an opening in the earth. Eventually the awareness ofeveryonewas focusedonthis roundishpit,andas ifbyprearrangedsignalweallbeganhuddlingaround it.Theonly soundswere thoseof thewindandourownmovementsaswecrushedfrozenleavesandsticksunderfoot.

Finally,whenwehadallsurroundedthisgapinghole,thefirstonejumpedin,leavingoursightforamomentbutthenreappearingtotakeholdofalanternwhichanotherhandedhimfromabove.Theminiatureabyssfilledwithlight,andIcould

seeitwasnomorethansixfeetdeep.Oneofitswallsopenedintothemouthofatunnel. The figure holding the lantern stooped a little and disappeared into thepassage.

Eachofus,inturn,droppedintothedarknessofthispit,andeveryfifthonetookalantern.Ikepttothebackofthegroup,forwhateversubterraneanactivitiesweregoingtotakeplace,IwassureIwantedtobeontheirperiphery.Whenonlyabouttenofusremainedonthegroundabove, Imaneuveredto let fourof themprecedemesothatImightreceivealantern.Thiswasexactlyhowitworkedout,forafterIhadleapedtothebottomoftheholealightwasrituallyhandeddowntome.Turningabout-face,Iquicklyenteredthepassageway.AtthatpointIshooksowithcoldthatIwasneithercuriousnorafraid,gratefulfortheshelter.

I entered a long, gently sloping tunnel, just high enough for me to standupright.Itwasconsiderablywarmerdowntherethanoutsideinthecolddarknessof the woods. After a few moments I had sufficiently thawed out so that myconcerns shifted from those of physical comfort to a sudden and justifiedpreoccupationwithmysurvival.AsIwalkedIheldmylanternclosetothesidesofthe tunnel.Theywere relatively smooth as if thepassagehadnotbeenmadebymanualdiggingbuthadbeenburrowedbysomethingwhichleftbehindacluetoitsdimensions in the tunnel’s sizeand shape.Thisdelirious idea came tomewhen Irecalled themessage that had been left onmy hotel roommirror: “What buriesitselfbeforeitisdead?”

Ihadtohurryalongtokeepupwiththoseuncannyspelunkerswhoprecededme. The lanterns ahead bobbed with every step of their bearers, the lumberingprocession seeming less and less real the fartherwemarched into that snug littletunnel. At some point I noticed the line ahead of me growing shorter. Theprocessioners were emptying out into a cavernous chamber where I, too, soonarrived. This area was about thirty feet in height, its other dimensionsapproximatingthoseofa largeballroom.Gazing intothedistanceabovemademeuncomfortably aware of how far we had descended into the earth. Unlike thesmoothsidesofthetunnel,thewallsofthiscavernlookedjaggedandirregular,as

thoughtheyhadbeengnawedat.Theearthhadbeenremoved,Iassumed,eitherthroughthetunnelfromwhichwehademerged,orelsebywayofoneofthemanyotherblackopeningsthatIsawaroundtheedgesofthechamber,forpossiblytheytooledbacktothesurface.

Butthestructureofthischamberoccupiedmymindagreatdeallessthandidits occupants.There tomeet us on the floor of the great cavernwaswhatmusthave been the entire slum population ofMirocaw, andmore, all with the sameeerilywide-eyedandoval-mouthedfaces.Theyformedacirclearoundanaltar-likeobjectwhichhad some kind of dark, leathery covering draped over it.Upon thealtar,anothercoveringofthesamematerialconcealedalumpyformbeneath.Andbehindthisform,lookingdownuponthealtar,wastheonlyfigurewhosefacewasnotgreasedwithmakeup.

He wore a long snowy robe that was the same color as the wispy hairberimminghishead.Hisarmswerecalmlyathissides.Hemadenomovement.ThemanIoncebelievedwouldpenetrategreat secrets stoodbeforeuswith the sameprofessorial bearing that had impressed me so many years ago, yet now I feltnothing but dread at the thought of what revelations lay pocketed within theabysmal foldsofhismagisterialattire.HadI reallycomehere tochallenge suchaformidable figure? The name by which I knew him seemed itself insufficient todesignateoneofhis stature.Rather I shouldnamehimbyhisother incarnations:godofallwisdom,scribeofallsacredbooks,fatherofallmagicians,thricegreatandmore—ratherIshouldcallhimThoth.

He raised his cupped hands to his congregation and the ceremony wasunderway.

Itwas all very simple.The entire assembly,which had remained speechlessuntilthismoment,brokeintothemosthorrendoushigh-pitchedsingingthatcanbeimagined.Itwasachoirofsorrow,lament,andmortification.Thecavernrangwiththe dissonant, whining chorus.My voice, too, was added to the congregation’s,tryingtoblendwiththeirmaimedmusic.Butmysingingcouldnotimitatetheirs,having ahuskiness at oddswith the keeningululation of that company.Tokeep

from exposing myself as an intruder I continued to mouth their words withoutsound.ThesewordswerearevelationofthemoodymalignancywhichuntilthenIhad nomore than sensedwhenever in the presence of these figures. Theyweresingingtothe“unborninparadise,”tothe“pureunlivedlives.”Theysangadirgeforexistence,forallitsvitalformsandseasons.Theiridealwasamelancholyhalf-existenceconsecratedtoallthemanyshapesofdeathanddissolution.Aseaofthin,bloodless faces trembled and screamed their antipathy to being itself. And therobed,guiding figureat theheartofall this—elevatedover thecourseof twentyyearstothestatusofhighpriest—wasthemanfromwhomIhadtakensomanyofmyownlife’sprinciples.ItwouldbeuselesstodescribewhatIfeltatthatmomentandawasteofthetimeIneedtodescribetheeventswhichfollowed.

Thesingingabruptlystoppedandthetoweringwhite-haired figurebegantospeak.Hewaswelcomingthoseofthenewgeneration—twentywintershadpassedsincethe“PureOnes”hadexpandedtheirranks.Theword“pure” inthissettingwasaviolencetowhatsenseandcomposureIstillretained,fornothingcouldhavebeenmorefoulthanwhatwastocome.Thoss—andIemploythisdefunctidentityonlyasaconvenience—closedhissermonanddrewclosertothedark-skinnedaltar.Then,withall theflourishofhis former life,hedrewbackthetopmostcovering.Beneath itwasa limp-limbedeffigy,acollapsedpuppet sprawleduponthe slab. IwasstandingtowardtherearofthecongregationandattemptedtokeepasclosetotheexitpassageasIcould.Thus,IdidnotseeeverythingasclearlyasImighthave.

Thoss looked down upon the crooked, doll-like form and then out at thegathering. I even imagined that he made knowing eye-contact with myself. Hespreadhis armsanda streamof continuousandunintelligiblewords flowed fromhismoaningmouth. The congregation began to stir, not greatly but perceptibly.Untilthatmoment therewas a limit towhat I believedwas the evil of thesepeople.Theywere, after all, only that.Theyweremerelymorbid soulswithbeliefs thatwereeccentric to the healthy social order around them. If there was anything I hadlearnedinallmyyearsasananthropologistitwasthattheworldisinfinitelyrichin

phenomenathatsocietyasweknowit(whoever“we”mightbe)wouldregardasstrange,eventothepointwheretheconceptofstrangenessitselfhadlittlemeaningforme.Butwith the scene I thenwitnessed,my consciencevaulted into a realmfromwhichitwillneverreturn.

Fornowwasthetransformationscene,theculminationofeveryharlequinade.Itbeganslowly.Therewasincreasingmovementamongthoseonthefarside

ofthechamberfromwhereIstood.Someonehadfallentothefloorandtheothersin theareabackedaway.Thevoiceat thealtar continued its chanting. I tried togainabetterviewbutthereweretoomanyofthemaroundme.ThroughthemassofobstructingbodiesIcaughtonlyglimpsesofwhatwastakingplace.

Theonewhohadswoonedtothefloorofthechamberseemedtobelosingallformershapeandproportion.Ithoughtitwasaclown’strick.Theywereclowns,weretheynot?Imyselfcouldmakefourwhiteballstransformintofourblackballsas I juggled them.Andthiswasnotmymostastonishing featof clownishmagic.And is there not always a sleight-of-hand inherent in all ceremonies, oftendependentonthetransporteddelusionsofthecelebrants?Thiswasagoodshow,Ithought,andgiggledtomyself.ThetransformationsceneofHarlequinthrowingoffhis fool’s facade.OGod,Harlequin,donotmove likethat!Harlequin,whereareyour arms?And your legs havemelted together and begun squirming upon thefloor.Whathorrible,mouthingumbilicusisthatwhereyourfaceshouldbe?Whatis it that buries itself before it is dead? The almighty serpent of wisdom—theConquerorWorm.

Itnowstartedhappeningallaroundthechamber.Individualmembersofthecongregationwould gaze emptily—caught for amoment in a frozen trance—andthen collapse to the floor to begin the sickening metamorphosis. This happenedwithever-increasing frequency the louderandmore franticallyThoss chantedhisinsaneprayerorcurse.Thentherebeganawrithingmovement towardthealtar,andThosswelcomedthethingsas theycurledtheirwaytothealtar-top. Iknewnowwhatlaxfigurelayuponit.

ThiswasKoraandPersephone,thedaughterofCeresandtheWinterQueen:the child abducted into the underworld of death. Except this child had nosupernatural mother to save her, no living mother at all. For the sacrifice Iwitnessedwasanechoofonethathadoccurredtwentyyearsbefore,thecarnivalfeastoftheprecedinggeneration—Ocarnevale!Nowbothmotheranddaughterhadbecomevictimsof this subterraneansabbat. I finally realized this truthwhenthefigurestirreduponthealtar,lifteditsheadoficybeauty,andscreamedatthesightofmutemouthsclosingaroundher.

Iranfromthechamberintothetunnel.(Therewasnothingelsethatcouldbedone,Ihaveobsessivelytoldmyself.)Someoftheotherswhohadnotyetchangedbegantopursueme.Theywouldhavecaughtuptome,Ihavenodoubt,forIfellonly a fewyards into the passage.And for amoment I imagined that I toowasabouttoundergoatransformation.Anythingseemedpossiblenow.WhenIheardtheapproachingfootstepsofmypursuersIwassuretherewasnothingleftformebuttheworst finaleahumanbeingcansuffer—thedeathknowntothosewhomthegodshavefirstmademad.PerhapsIwouldevenbeforcedtotakeaplaceonthealtaramongthegoryremnantsoftheWinterQueen.Butthefootstepsbehindme ceased and retreated. They had received an order in the voice of their highpriest.Itooheardtheorder,thoughIwishIhadnot,foruntilthenIhadimaginedthat Thoss did not remember who I was. It was that voice which taught meotherwise.

ForthemomentIwasfreetoleave.Istruggledtomyfeetand,havingbrokenmylanterninthefall,retracedmywaybackthroughcloacalblackness.

Everything seemed to happen very quickly once I emerged from the tunnelandclimbedupfromthepit.IwipedthereekinggreasepaintfrommyfaceasIranthroughthewoodsandbacktotheroad.Apassingcarstopped,thoughIgaveitnootherchoiceexcepttorunmedown.

“Thankyouforstopping.”“Whatthehellareyoudoingouthere?”thedriverasked.Icaughtmybreath.“Itwasajoke.Thefestival.Friendsthoughtitwouldbe

funny.Pleasedriveon.”Myrideletmeoffaboutamileoutoftown,andfromthereIcouldfindmy

way. Itwas the same route I traveledwhen I first visitedMirocaw the summerbefore.Istoodforawhileatthesummitofthathighhilljustoutsidethecitylimits,looking down upon the busy little hamlet. The intensity of the festival had notabated. I walked toward the welcoming glow of green and slipped through thefestivitiesunnoticed.

WhenIreachedthehotelIwasgladtoseethatnoonewasabout.GiventhatI was so obviously a wreck, I feared meeting anyone who might ask what hadhappenedtome.Thehoteldeskwasunattended,soIwassparedhavingtospeakwith Beadle. Indeed, there was an atmosphere of abandonment throughout theplacethatIfoundominousyetdidnotpausetocontemplate.

Itrodupthestairstomyroom.Lockingthedoorbehindme,Ithencollapseduponthebedandwassoonenshroudedbyamercifulblackness.

7.

When I awoke the next morning I saw from my window that the town andsurroundingcountrysidehadbeenvisitedduringthenightbyaheavysnowfall,onewhichwas entirely unpredicted.A few leftover flakeswere still lighting on thenowdesertedstreetsofMirocaw,andburiedbeneaththedriftsbelowwerethelastvestigesofrevelryandcelebration.Thefestivalwasover.Everyonehadretiredtotheirhomes.

And thiswas exactlymyown intention.Anyactiononmypart concerningwhat Ihad seen thenightbeforewouldhave towaituntil Iwasaway fromthetown. I am still not sure itwill do the slightest good to speak up like this.Anyaccusations I have made with respect to the slum populace of Mirocaw areeminently subject to dismissal, perhaps as a hoax or a festival hallucination.And

thereafterthisdocumentwilltakeitsplacealongsidetheworksofRaymondThoss.

Withpackedsuitcases inbothhands Iwalkedupto the frontdesk tocheckout.ThemanbehindthedeskwasnotSamuelBeadle,andhehadtofumblearoundtofindmybill.

“Hereweare.Everythingallright?”“Fine,”Iansweredinadeadvoice.“IsMr.Beadlearound?”“No,I’mafraidhe’snotbackyet.Beenoutallnightlookingforhisdaughter.

She’saverypopulargirl,beingtheWinterQueenandallthatnonsense.Probablyfindshewasatapartysomewhere.”

Alittlenoisecameoutofmythroat.Ithrewmysuitcasesinthebackseatofmycarandgotbehindthewheel.On

thatmorningnothingIcouldrecallseemedrealtome.ThesnowwasfallingandIwatcheditthroughmywindshield,slowandsilentandentrancing.Istartedupmycar, routinely glancing inmy rear viewmirror.What I saw there is nowvividlyframedinmymind,asitwasframedinthebackwindowofmycarwhenIturnedtoverifyitsreality.

In the middle of the street behind me, standing ankle-deep in snow, wereThossandanotherfigure.WhenI lookedcloselyattheotherIrecognizedhimasoneoftheboyswhomIsurprisedinthatdiner.Buthehadnowtakenonalistlessresemblancetohisnewfamily.BothheandThossstaredatme,makingnoattempttoforestallmydeparture.Thossknewthatthiswasunnecessary.

IhadtocarrytheimageofthosetwodarkfiguresinmymindasIdrovebackhome.Andonlynowhasthefullgravityofmyexperiencedescendeduponme.SofarIhaveclaimedillnessinordertoavoidmyteachingschedule.TofacethenormalflowoflifeasIhadformerlyknownitwouldbeimpossible.Iamnowverymuchundertheinfluenceofaseasonandaclimatefarcolderandmorebarrenthanallthewinters inhumanmemory.Andmentally retracingpast events doesnot seem tohave helped. If anything, I now feel myself sinking deeper into a velvety whiteabyss.

AtcertaintimesIcouldalmostdissolveentirelyintothisinnerrealmofpurityand emptiness, the paradise of the unborn. I remember how I was momentarilyovertakenbya feeling Ihadneverknownwhen indisguise Idrifted throughthestreets of Mirocaw, untouched by the drunken, noisy forms around me:untouchable. Itwas the feeling that Ihadbeen liberated from theweightof life.ButIrecoilatthisseductivenostalgia,foritmocksmyexistenceasmerefoolery,abrightclown’smaskbehindwhichIhavesoughttohidemydarkness.IrealizewhatishappeningandwhatIdonotwanttobetrue,thoughThossproclaimeditwas.Irecall his command to those others as I lay helplessly prone in the tunnel.Theycouldhaveapprehendedme,butThoss,myoldmaster,calledthemback.Hisvoiceechoed throughout that cavern, and it now reverberates within the psychicchambersofmymemory.

“Heisoneofus,”itsaid.“Hehasalwaysbeenoneofus.”It is thisvoicewhichnowfillsmydreamsandmydaysandmy longwinter

nights.Ihaveseenyou,Dr.Thoss,throughthesnowoutsidemywindow.SoonIwillcelebrate,alone,thatlastfeastwhichwillkillyourwords,onlytoprovehowwellIhavelearnedtheirtruth.

TothememoryofH.P.Lovecraft

TheSpectaclesintheDrawer

Lastyearatthistime,perhapsonthisveryday,Plombvisitedmeatmyhome.Healways seemed to know when I had returned from my habitual traveling andalways appeared uninvited on my doorstep. Although my former residence waspathetically run-down,Plombseemedtoregard itasakindofpalaceofwonders,andhewouldgazeatitshighceilingsandantiquatedfixturesasifhesawsomenewglamour inthemoneachofhisvisits.Thatday—adimone,Ithink—hedidnotfail to do the same. Then we settled into one of the spacious though sparselyfurnishedroomsofmyhouse.

“And how were your travels?” he asked, as if only in the spirit of politeconversation.Icouldseebyhissmile—anemulationofmyown,nodoubt—thathewasglad tobeback inmyhouseand inmycompany. I smiled tooandstoodup.Plomb, of course, stood up along with me, almost simultaneously with my ownmovements.

“Shallwegothen?”Isaid.Whatapest,Ithought.Ourfootstepstappedamoderatetimeonthehardwoodenfloorleadingtothe

stairway.Weascendedtothesecondfloor,whichIleftalmostentirelyempty,andthenupanarrowerstairwaytothethirdfloor.AlthoughIhadledhimalongthisrouteseveraltimesbefore,Icouldseefromhiswanderingeyesthat,forhim,everycrackinthewalls,everycobwebflutteringinthecornersabove,everystaledraftofthe house composed a suspenseful prelude to our destination.At the end of thethird-floorhalltherewasasmallwoodenstairway,nomorethanaladder,thatledtoanoldstoreroomwhereIkeptcertainthingswhichIcollected.

Itwas not by anymeans a spacious room, and its enclosed atmospherewasthickened,asPlombwouldhaveemphasized,byitsclaustrophobicarrangementoftallcabinets,ceiling-highshelves,andvarioustrunksandcrates.Thisissimplyhowmattersworkedoutoveraperiodoftime.Inanycase,Plombseemedtofavorthisstateofaffairs.“Ah,theroomofsecretmystery,”hesaid.“Thechamberwhereallyourhermeticalprodigiesarecachedaway.”

These treasures and marvels, as Plomb called them, were, I suppose,remarkablefromacertainpointofview.Plomblovedtogothroughmycollection

ofcuriosities,gatheringtogetheralapfulofexoticobjectsandsettlingdownonthedustysofaatthecenteroftheroom.Butitwasthenewitems,wheneverIreturnedfromoneofmyprotractedtours,thatalwaystookprecedenceinPlomb’shierarchyoffascination.Thus,Iimmediatelybroughtoutthedouble-handled dagger with the single blade of polished stone. At first sight of theceremonial object, Plomb held out the flat palms of his hands, and I placed thisqueer device upon its rightful altar. “Who could have made such a thing?” heasked,thoughrhetorically.Heexpectednoanswertohisquestionsandpossiblydidnotreallydesireany.AndofcourseIofferednomoreelaborateanexplanationthanasimplesmile.Buthowquickly,Inoticedonthisoccasion,themagicofthatfirsttokenofmy“tantalizingarcana,”ashewouldsay,lostitsinitialsurgeofattraction.Howfastthatglisteningfog,whichsurroundedonlyPlomb,dispersedtounveilatediousclarity.Ihadtomovefaster.

“Here,” I said, my arm searching the shadows of an openwardrobe. “Thisshouldbewornwhenyouhandle that sacrificial artifact.”And I threw the robeabouthisshoulders,engulfinghissmallishframewithacycloneofstrangepatternsand colors. He admired himself in the mirror attached inside the door of thewardrobe. “Lookat the robe in themirror,”hepractically shouted. “Thedesignsare all turned around. How much stranger, how much better.”While he stoodthereglaringathimself,Irelievedhimofthedaggerbeforehehadachancetodosomethingcareless.Thislefthishandsfreetoraisethemselvesuptothedust-cakedceilingoftheroom,andtothedarkgodsofhisimagination.Grippingeachhandleofthedagger,Isuddenlyelevateditabovehishead,whereIhelditpoised.Inafewmoments he started to giggle, and then fell into spasms of sardonic hilarity. Hestumbledovertotheoldsofaandcollapseduponitssoftcushions.Ifollowed,butwhen I reached his prostrate form itwas not the pale-blue blade that I broughtdownuponhischest—itwassimplyabook,oneofmanyIhadputbeforehim.Hispeaked legs created a lectern on which he rested the huge volume, propping itsecurelyashebeganturningthestiffcracklingpages.Thesoundseemedtoabsorbhim as much as the sight of a language he could not even name let alone

comprehend.“The lost grimoire of theAbbot of Tine,” he giggled. “Transcribed in the

languageof—”“Awildguess,”Iinterjected.“Andawrongone.”“ThentheforbiddenPsalmsoftheSilent.Thebookwithout

anauthor.”“Withoutanauthorwhoeverlivedinthisworld,ifyouwillrecallwhatItold

youaboutit.Butyou’reverywideofthemark.”“Well,supposeyougivemeahint,”hesaidwithanimpatiencethatsurprised

me.“But wouldn’t you prefer to speculate on its secrets?” I suggested. Some

momentsofprecarioussilencepassed.“IsupposeIwould,”hefinallyanswered.ThenIwatchedhimgorgehiseyes

ontheinscrutablescriptoftheancientvolume.Intruth, themysteriesof thisSacredWritwereamongthemostgenuineof

their kind, for it had never been my intention to dupe my disciple, as he justlythought of himself, with false secrets. But the secrets of such a book are notperpetual.Oncetheyareknown,theybecomerelegatedtoalessersphere,whichisthatoftheknower.Havinglosttheprestigetheyonceenjoyed,theseformersecretsnow function as tools in the excavation of still deeper oneswhich, in turn,willsufferthesamecorrosivefate.Andthisisthefateofallthesecretsoftheuniverse.Eventually the seeker of a recondite knowledge may conclude—either throughinsight or sheer exhaustion—that this ruthless process is never-ending, that themortification of one mystery after another has no terminus beyond that of theseeker’sownextinction.Andhowmanystillremainsusceptibletothesearch?Howmany pursue it to the end of their days with undying hope of some ultimaterevelation?Betternottothinkinprecisetermsjusthowfewthefaithfulare.Moreto thepresentpoint, it seems thatPlombbelonged to their infinitesimal number.Anditwasmyintentiontoreducethatnumberbyone.

Theplanwassimple:tofeedPlomb’shungerformysterioussensationstothe

point of nausea…and beyond. The only thing to survive would be a gutful ofshameandregretforadefunctpassion.

AsPlomblayuponthesofa,oglingthatstupidbook,Imovedtowardalargecabinetwhoseseveraldoorswerecomposedofatarnishedmetalgrillworkframedby dark wood. I opened one of these doors and exposed a number of shelvescluttered with books and odd objects. Upon one shelf, resting there as its soleoccupant,wasaverywhitebox.Itwasnolarger,asImentallyenvisionit,thanamodest jewelrycase.Therewerenomarkingsonthebox,exceptthefingerprints,orratherthumbprints,smearingitssmoothwhitesurfaceatitsopposingedgesandhalfwayalongitslength.Therewerenohandlesorembellishmentsofanykind;noteven,at firstsight, thethinnestofseamsto indicatethe levelatwhichthe lowerpartoftheboxmettheupperpart,orperhapsgiveawaytheexistenceofadrawer.Ismiledalittleatthemockintrigueoftheobject,thengrippeditfromeitherside,gently, and placed my thumbs precisely over the fresh, greasy prints. I appliedpressurewitheachthumb,andashallowdrawerpoppedopenatthefrontofthebox.Ashoped,PlombhadbeenwatchingmeasIwentthroughthesemotions.

“Whatdoyouhavethere?”heasked.“Patience, Plomb. Youwill see,” I answeredwhile delicately removing two

sparkling items from the drawer: one a small and silvery knifewhich verymuchresembled a razor-sharp letter opener, and theother apair of old-fashionedwire-rimmedspectacles.

Plomblaidasidethenow-boringbookandsatupstraightagainstthearmofthesofa.Isatdownbesidehimandopenedupthespectaclessothatthestemswerepointing toward his face.When he leaned forward, I slipped them on. “They’reonlyplainglass,”hesaidwithadefinitetoneofdisappointment.“Oraveryweakprescription.”Hiseyesrolledaboutasheattemptedtoscrutinizewhatresteduponhisownface.Withoutsayingaword,Iheldupthelittleknifeinfrontofhimuntilhe finally tooknotice of it. “Ahhhh,”he said, smiling. “There’smore to it.” “Ofcoursethereis,”Isaid,gentlytwirlingthesteelybladebeforehisfascinatedeyes.“Ifyouwould,Ineedyoutoholdoutthepalmofyourhand.Itdoesn’tmatterwhich

one.Good,justlikethat.Don’tworry,youwon’tevenfeelthis.There,”Isaidaftermakingatinycut.“Now,”Iinstructedhim,“keepwatchingthatthinredtrickle.

“Your eyes are now fusedwith those fantastic lenses, and your sight is onewith its object.Andwhat exactly is that object?Obviously it is everything thatfascinates,everythingthathaspoweroveryourgazeandyourdreams.Youcannotevenconceivethewishtolookaway.Andeveniftherearenosimpleimagestosee,nonetheless there is a vision of some kind, an infinite and overwhelming sceneexpandingbeforeyou.Andthevastnessofthissceneissuchthateventhedazzlingdiffusionofalltheknownuniversescannotconveytheseprodigies.Everythingissobrilliant, so great, and so alive. Landscapes without end are rolling with a lifeunknown tomortal eyes.Unimaginablediversity of formandmotion, design anddimension, with each detail perfectly crystalline, from the mammoth shapeslurching in outline against endless horizons to the minutest cilia wriggling in anobscureoceanicniche.Andeventhisisonlyamerefragmentofallthatthereistoseeandtoknow.Therearelabyrinthineastronomiesminglingtogetherandyieldinginstantaneousevolutions,constanttransformationsofbothappearanceandessence.Youfeelyourselftobeawitnesstothemostcrypticphenomenathatexistorevercould exist.Andyet, somehow concealed in the shadowsofwhat you can see issomethingthatisnotyetvisible,somethingthatisbeatinglikeathunderouspulseandpromisesstillgreatervisions.Allelseismerelyitsmembraneenclosingtheultimatethingwaitingtobeborn,preparingforthecataclysmwhichwillbeboththebeginningandtheend.Tobeholdthepreludetothiseventisanexperienceofunbearableanticipation,sothatecstasyanddreadmerge intoanewemotion,onecorrespondingperfectlytotheexposureoftheultimatesourceofallmanifestation.Thenextinstant,itseems,willbringwithitarevolutionofthetotalsubstanceofthings.Asthesecondskeeppassing,theexperiencegrowsmorefascinatingwithoutfulfilling itsportents,withoutextinguishing itself inrevelation.Andalthoughthevisionsremainactiveinsideyou,deepinyourblood—younowawake.”

Pushinghimselfup from the sofa,Plomb staggered forwarda fewsteps andwipedhisbloodiedpalmonthefrontofhisshirt,asiftowipeawaythevisionshe

hadseen.Heshookhisheadvigorouslyonceortwice,butthespectaclesremainedsecure.

“Iseverythingallright?”Iaskedhim.Plombappearedtobedazzledintheworstway.Behindthespectacleshiseyes

gazed dumbly, and his mouth gaped with countless unspoken words. However,whenIsaid,“PerhapsIshouldremovetheseforyou,”hishandrosetowardmine,as if to preventme from doing so. But his effortwas half-hearted. Folding theirwire stems one across the other, I replaced them back in their box. Plomb nowwatchedme,asifIwereperformingsomeritualofgreatmoment.Heseemedtobestillcomposinghimselffromhisexperience.

“Well?”Iasked.“Dreadful,”heanswered.“But…”“But?”“WhatImeanis—wheredidtheycomefrom?”“Can’t you imagine that for yourself?” I countered. And for a moment it

seemedthatinthiscase,too,hedesiredsomesimpleanswer,contrarytohismosthardenedhabits.Thenhe smiled rather deviously and threwhimself downuponthesofa.Hiseyesglazedoverashefabricatedananecdotetohisfancy.

“Icanseeyou,”hesaid,“atanoccultistauctioninadisreputablequarterofaforeigncity.Theboxiscarriedforward,thespectaclestakenout.TheyweremadeseveralgenerationsagobyamanwhowasatonceastudentoftheGnosticsandamasterofoptometry.Hisambition:toconstructapairofartificialeyesthatwouldallowhimtobypasstheobstacleofphysicalappearancesandglimpseafar-offrealmofsecrettruthwhosegatewayiswithinthedepthsofourownblood.”

“Remarkable,”Ireplied.“Yourspeculation is soclosetotruth itself thatthedetailsarenotworthmentioningforthemeresakeofvulgaraccuracy.”

Infact,thespectaclesbelongedtoa lotofantiquarianrubbishIonceboughtblindly, and the box was of unknown, or rather unremembered, origin—justsomethingIhadlyingaroundinmyatticroom.Andtheknife,amagician’spropforefficientlyslicinguppapermoneyandsilkties.

IcarriedtheboxcontainingbothspectaclesandknifeovertoPlomb,holdingitjustbeyondhisreach.Isaid,“Canyouimaginethedangers involved,thepossiblenightmare of possessing such ‘artificial eyes?’” He nodded gravely in agreement.“Andyoucan imaginetherestraint thepossessorof suchagruesomecontrivancemustpractice.”Hiseyeswereallcomprehension,andhewassuckingalittleathisslightly lacerated palm. “Then nothing would please me more than to pass theownershipofthismiraculousartifactontoyou,mydearPlomb.I’msureyouwillholditinwonderasnooneelsecould.”

Anditwasexactlythiswonderthatitwasmymaliciousaimtoundermine,orrathertoexpanduntilitrippeditselfapart.ForIcouldnolongerendurethesightofit.

AsPlombonceagainstoodatthedoorofmyhome,holdinghispreciousgiftwithachild’sawkwardembrace,Icouldnotresistaskinghimthequestion.

“Bytheway,Plomb,haveyoueverbeenhypnotized?”“No,”hesaid.“Whydoyouask?”“Curiosity,”Ireplied.“YouknowhowIam.Well,goodnight.”ThenIclosedthedoorbehindthemostwillingsubjectintheworld,hopingit

would be some time before he returned. “If ever,” I said aloud, and the wordsechoedinthehollowsofmyhome.

2.

ButitwasnotlongafterwardthatPlombandIhadournextconfrontation,thoughthe circumstances were accidental. Late one afternoon, as it happens, I wasbrowsing through a shop that dealt in second-hand merchandise of the mostpatheticsort.Theplacewaspositivelylitteredwithtossed-offoddmentsandpuretrash:rustyscalesthatoncewouldhavegivenyourweightforapenny,cockeyedbookcases, broken toys, old furniture, standing ashtrays late of somehotel lobby,

and a hodge-podge of items that seemed entirely inscrutable in their origin andpurpose. For me, however, such desolate bazaars offered more diversion andconsolationthanthemostexoticmarketplaces,whichsooftenmadegoodontheirstrangepromises thatmystery itself ceased tohavemeaning.Butmysecond-handseller made no promises and inspired no dreams, leaving all that to those moreambitious hucksters who trafficked in such stock in trade. And I had left thatsearchbehindme,aspreviouslyexplained.Whatthemysticalraritiesofthisearthwere for Plomb, the most used-up and dismal commodities had become for me.Now I could ask no more of a given gray afternoon than to find myself in anestablishmentthathadnothingtosellbutthecharmofdisenchantment.

Bycoincidence,thatparticularafternooninthesecond-handshopbroughtme,if only in an indirect manner, togetherwith Plomb. The visual transaction tookplace in a tilting mirror that stood near the shop’s back wall, one of the manymirrors that seemed to constitute a specialty of the place. I had squatted downbefore this relic and wiped my bare hand across its dusty surface. And there,hiddenbeneaththedust,wasthe faceofPlomb,whomusthave justenteredtheshop and was standing a room’s length away. While he seemed to recognizeimmediatelythereversesideofme,hisexpressionbetrayedthehopethatIhadnotseen him.Therewas shock aswell as shame upon that face, and something elsebesides.AndifPlombhadapproachedme,whatcouldIhavesaidtohim?PerhapsIwouldhavementionedthathedidnotlookverywellorthatitappearedhehadbeen thevictimof an accident.Buthowcouldhe explainwhathadhappened tohim except to reveal the truth that we both knew and neither would speak?Fortunately, this scenewas toremain in itshypothetical state,becauseamomentlaterhewasoutthedoor.

I cautiously approached the frontwindowof the shop in time to seePlombhurryingoff intothedull,unreflectingday,hisrighthandhelduptohis face.“Itwasonlymyintentiontocurehim,”Imumbledtomyself.Ihadnotconsideredthathewasincurable,northatthingswouldhavedevelopedinthewaytheydid.

3.

AfterthatdayIwondered,eventuallytothepointofobsession,whatkindofhellhadclaimedpoorPlombforitsown.IknewonlythatIhadprovidedhimwithatypeof toy: the subliminal ability to feasthis eyeson an imaginaryuniverse in adroplet of his own blood. The possibility that he would desire to magnify thisexperience, or indeed that hewould be capable of such a feat, had not seriouslyoccurredtome.Obviously,however, thishadbecomethecase. InowhadtoaskmyselfhowmuchfartherPlomb’ssituationcouldbeextended.Theanswer,thoughIcouldnotguessitatthetime,waspresentedtomeinadream.

Anditseemedfittingthatthedreamhaditssettinginthatoldatticstoreroomofmyhouse,whichPlombonceprizedaboveallotherrooms intheworld. Iwassittinginachair,ahugeandenvelopingchairwhichinrealitydoesnotexistbutinthedreamdirectly faces thesofa.Nothoughtsor feelings troubledme,andIhadonlythefaintestsensethatsomeoneelsewasintheroom.ButIcouldnotseewhoitwas, because everything appeared sodim in outline, blurry andgrayish.Thereseemedtobesomemovementintheregionofthesofa,asiftheenormouscushionsthemselveshadbecome lethargically restless.Unable to fathom the sourceof thismovement,Itouchedmyhandtomytempleinthought.ThiswashowIdiscoveredthatIwaswearingapairofspectacleswithcircularlensesconnectedtowirystems.Ithoughttomyself:“IfIremovethesespectaclesIwillbeabletoseemoreclearly.”But a voice told me not to remove them, and I recognized that voice. Thensomethingmoved, aman-shaped shadowupon the sofa.A climate of dull horrorbegan to invademy surroundings. “Go away,Plomb.Youhave nothing to showme,”Isaid.Butthevoicedisagreedwithmeinsinisterwhispersthatmadenosenseyet seemed filledwithmeaning. Iwould indeedbe shown things, thesewhispersseemed to be saying. Already I was being shown things, astonishing things—mysteriesandmarvelsbeyondanythingIhadeversuspected.Andsuddenlyallmy

feelings, as I gazed through the spectacles, were proof of that garbledpronouncement.Theywerefeelingsofapeculiarnaturewhich,tomyknowledge,one experiences only in dreams: sensations of infinite expansiveness and ineffablemeaningthathavenoplaceelsewhereinourlives.Butalthoughtheseastronomicalemotionssuggestedwondersof incrediblemagnitudeandcharacter,Isawnothingthroughthosemagiclensesexceptthis:theobscureshapeintheshadowsbeforemeasitsoutlinegrewclearerandclearertomyeyes.GraduallyIcametoviewwhatappeared to be a mutilated carcass, something of a terrible rawness, a torn andflayedthingwhoseeverylacerationcouldbeseenwithmicroscopicprecision.Theonlythingofcolorinmygrayishsurroundings,ittwitchedandquiveredlikeagoryheart exposed beneath the body of the dream.And itmade a sound like hellishgiggling.Thenitsaid,“Iambackfrommytrip,”asifmockingme.

It was this simple statement that inspired my efforts to tear the spectaclesfrommyface,eventhoughtheynowseemedtobepartofmyflesh.Igrippedthemwithbothhandsandflungthemagainstthewall,wheretheyshattered.Somehowthisservedtoexorcisemytormentedcompanion,whofadedbackintothegrayness.ThenIlookedatthewallandsawthatitwasrunningredwherethespectacleshadstruck.Andthebrokenlensesthatlayuponthefloorwerebleeding.

Toexperiencesuchadreamasthisonasingleoccasionmightverywellbethestuff of a haunting, lifelong memory, something that perhaps might even becherished for itsunfathomabledepthsof feeling.But to sufferover andover thissamenightmare,asIsoonfoundwasmyfate,leadsonetoseeknothingsomuchasawaytokillthedream,toexposeallitssecretsandreduceittofragmentsthatcanbeforgotten.

Inmysearch for thisdeliverance, I first looked to the sheltering shadowsofmyhome, the sobering shadowswhichatother timeshadgrantedmeacoldandstagnantpeace. I tried toarguemyself freeofmynightlyexcursions, todiscoursethesevisionsaway,lecturingthewallscontratheprodigiesofamysteriousworld.“Since any form of existence,” I muttered, “since any form of existence is bydefinitionaconflictofforces,or it isnothingatall,whatcanitpossiblymatter if

these skirmishes take place in aworld ofmarvels or one ofmud?The differencebetweenthetwoisnotworthmentioning,ornone.Suchdistinctionsaretheworkofonlythecrudestandmostlimitedperspectives,thesenseofmysteryandwonderforemostamongthem.Eventhemostesotericecstasy,when it comesdownto it,requires the prop of vulgar pain in order to stand up as an experience. Havingacknowledged the truth, however provisional, and the reality, if subject tomutation,ofallthatismoststrangeintheuniverse—whetherknown,unknown,ormerely suspected—one must conclude that such marvels change nothing in ourexistence.Thegalleryofhumansensationsthatexistedinprehistoryisidenticaltothe one that faces each life today, thatwill continue to face each new life as itentersthisworld…andthenlooksbeyondit.”

ThusIattemptedtoreasonmywaybacktoself-possession.Butnomeasureofmyformerserenitywasforthcoming.Onthecontrary,mydaysaswellasmynightswere now poisoned by an obsession with Plomb. Why had I given him thosespectacles!Moretothepoint,whydidIallowhimtoretainthem?Itwastimetotakebackmygift,toconfiscatethoselittlebitsofglassandtwistedmetalthatwerenowharrowing thewrongmind.And since I had succeeded toowell in keepinghimawayfrommydoor,Iwouldhavetobetheonetoapproachhis.

4.

ButitwasnotPlombwhoansweredtherottingdoorofthathousewhichstoodatthestreet’sendandbesideabroadexpanseofemptyfield.ItwasnotPlombwhoaskedifIwasanewspaperjournalistorapolicemanbeforeclosingthatgougedandfilthydoorinmyfacewhenIrepliedthatIwasneitherofthose.Poundingonthedoor,whichseemedabouttocrumbleundermyfist,Isummonedthesunken-eyedmanasecondtimetoaskifthisinfactwasMr.Plomb’saddress.Ihadnevervisitedhimathishome,thathopelesslittleboxinwhichhelivedandsleptanddreamed.

“Washearelative?”“No,”Ianswered.“Thenwhat?You’renotheretocollectabill,becauseifthat’sthecase…”ForthesakeofsimplicityIinterjectedthatIwasafriendofMr.Plomb.“Thenhowisityoudon’tknow?”ForthesakeofmycuriosityIsaidthatIhadbeenawayonatrip,asIoften

was,andhadmyownreasonsfornotifyingMr.Plombofmyreturn.“Thenyoudon’tknowanything,”hestatedflatly.“Exactly,”Ireplied.“Itwaseveninthenewspaper.Andtheyaskedmeabouthim.”“Plomb,”Iconfirmed.“That’sright,”hesaid,asifhehadsuddenlybecomethecustodianofasecret

knowledge.Thenhewavedmeintothehouseandledmethroughitsugly,airlessinterior

toasmallstorageroomattheback.Hereachedalongthewallinsidetheroom,asifhewantedtoavoidenteringit,andswitchedonthelight.

ImmediatelyIunderstoodwhythehollow-facedmanpreferrednottogointothatroom,forPlombhadrenovatedthisspaceinaverystrangeway.Eachwall,aswell as the ceiling and floor, was a mosaic of mirrors, a shocking galaxy ofredundant reflections. And each mirror was splattered across its surface, as ifsomeonehad swungbrushfulsofpaint fromvariouspoints throughout the room,spreading dark stars across a silvery firmament. In his attempt to exhaust orexaggerate the visions to which he had apparently become enslaved, Plomb haddonenothinglessthanmultipliedthesevisionsintoinfinity,creatingoceansofhisown blood and enabling himself to see with countless eyes. Entranced by suchaspiration, I gazed at the mirrors in speechless wonder. Among them was thattiltingmirrorIrememberedlookingintonotsolongago.

The landlord, who did not followme into the room, said something aboutsuicide and a body ripped raw.This newswas of course unnecessary as I stoodoverwhelmedatPlomb’singenuity.ItwassometimebeforeIcouldlookawayfrom

thatgalleryofglassandgore.OnlyafterwarddidIfullyrealizethatIwouldneverbe rid of the horrible Plomb. He had broken through all the mirrors, projectedhimselfintotheeternitybeyondthem.

And even when I abandoned my home, with its hideous attic storeroom,Plombstillfollowedmeinmydreams.Henowtravelswithmetotheendsoftheearth,initiatingmenightafternightintohisunspeakablewonders.Icanonlyhopethatwewillnotmeet inanotherplace,onewhere themysteriesarealwaysnewanddreamsneverend.Oh,Plomb,willyounotstayinthatboxwheretheyhaveputyourself-rivenbody?

FlowersoftheAbyss

Imustwhispermywordsinthewind,knowingsomehowthattheywillreachyouwho sentmehere.Let thismisadventure, like the first rank scent of autumn, becarriedbacktoyou,mygoodpeople.For itwasyouwhodecidedwhereIwouldgo,youwhowishedIcomehereandtohim.AndIagreed,becausethefearthatfilledyourvoicesandlinedyourfaceswassomuchgreaterthanyourwordscouldexplain.Ifearedyourfearofhim:theonewhosenamewedidnotknow,theonewholivedfarfromtowninthatruinedhousewhichlongagohadseenthepassingofthefamilyVanLivenn.“Whatatragedy,”weallagreed.“Andtheykeptthatbeautifulgarden for so long.Buthe . . .hedoesn’t seemmuch interested in suchthings.”

Iwas chosen tounravelhis secrets and findwhatmaliceor indifference thenewownerharboredtowardour town. I shouldbe theone,yousaid.Was Inottheteacherofthetown’schild-citizens,theonewhohadknowledgethatyouhadnotandwhomight therefore seedeeper into themysteryofourman?Thatwaswhatyousaid, intheshadowsofourchurchwherewemetthatnight;butwhatyouthought,Icouldnothelpbutsense,wasthathehasnochildrenofhisown,noone, and so many of his hours are spent walking through those same woods inwhichlivesthestranger.ItwouldseemquitenaturalifIhappenedtopasstheoldVanLivennhouse, if I happened to stop andperhaps beg a glass ofwater for athirsty walker of the woods. But these simple actions, even then, seemed anextraordinary adventure, thoughnone of us confessed to this feeling.Nothing tofear,yousaid.AndsoIwaschosentogoalonetothathousewhichhadfallenintosuchdisrepair.

Youhaveseenthehouseandhow,approachingitfromtheroadthatleadsoutoftown,itsproutssuddenlyintoview—apalefloweramidthedarksummertrees,nowaghostlyfloweratautumn.Atfirstthisishowitappearedtomyeyes.(Yes,myeyes, thinkabout them,goodpeople:dreamaboutthem.)Butas Inearedthehouse, itsgrayishplanks,bowedandbuckledandoddlyspotted,turnedthepallidlilytoapulpytoadstool.Surelythehousehasplayedthistrickonsomeofyou,andallofyouhaveseen itatonetimeoranother: itsroofofripplingshinglesshaped

likescalesfromsomegreatfish,sea-greenandsparklingintheautumnsun;itstwoattic gableswith panedwindows that come to a point like the tip of a tear; itssepulcher-shaped doorway at the top of rotted wooden stairs. And as I stoodamong the shadowsoutside thatdoor, Iheardhundredsof raindrops runningupthe steps behindme, as the airwent cold and the skies gained shadows of theirown.Thelightrainspottedtheempty,ashenplotnearbythehouse,wateringthebarrengroundwherethatremarkablegardenhadblossomedinthetimeoftheVanLivenns. What better excuse for my imposing upon the present owner of thishouse?Shelterme,stranger,fromtheicyautumnstorm,andfromafragrancedampanddecayed.

Herespondedpromptlytomyrapping,withoutsuspiciousmovementsoftheraggedcurtains,andIenteredhisdarkhome.Therewasnoneedforexplanation;hehadalreadyseenmewalkingaheadoftheclouds,thoughIhadnotseenhim:hislankylimbslikevaguelytwistedbranches;hislazyexpressionlessface;thecolorlessragswhichareeasiertoseeastatteredwrappingsthanaspartsofeventhepoorestwardrobe.Buthisvoice,that issomethingnoneofyouhaseverheard.Althoughshakenathowgentleandmusicalitsounded,Iwasevenlesspreparedforthesenseofgreatdistancescreatedbytheechoofhishollowwords.

“ItwasjustsuchadayasthiswhenIsawyouforthefirsttimewalkinginthewoods,”hesaid,lookingoutattherain.“Butyoudidnotcomeneartothehouse.Iwonderedifyoueverwould.”

Hiswordsputmeatease,forourintroductiontoeachotherappearedtohavealreadybeenmade.Iremovedmycoat,whichhetookandplacedonaverysmallwoodenchairbesidethefrontdoor.Extendingalongcrookedarmandwidehandtowardtheinterior,heformallywelcomedmeintohishome.

But somehowhe himself did not seem at home there. Itwas as if theVanLivennfamilyhadleftalltheirworldlygoodsbehindthemfortheuseofthenextoccupantoftheirhouse,whichwouldnotbepeculiar,tragedyconsidered.Nothingseemed to belong to him, though there was little enough in that house to bepossessedbyanyone.Apartfromthetwooldchairsinwhichwesatdownandthe

tinymisshapentablebetweenthem,thefewotherobjectsIcouldseeappearedtohavebeenbroughttogetheronlybyaccidentordefault,a signof the lastdaysoftheVanLivenns.Ahugetrunklyinginthecorner,itsgreattarnishedlocksprungopenanditsheavystrapsfallinglooselytothefloor,wouldhavelookedmuchlesssullenburied away in an attic or a cellar.And thatminiature chair by thedoor,withanidenticaltwinfallenonitsbackneartheoppositewall,belongedinachild’sroom.Standingbytheshutteredwindow,atallbookcaseseemedproperenough,ifonly those crackedpots,bentboots, andotherparaphernalia foreign tobookcaseshadnotbeen stuffedamong itsbatteredvolumes.A largebedroombureau stoodagainstonewall,butthatwouldhaveseemedmisplacedinanyroom:thehollowsofitsabsentdrawersweredeeplywebbedwithdisuse.Allofthesethingsseemedto me wracked with the history of degeneration and death chronicled in ourmemoryof theVanLivenns.But let thatrest fornow, lest I forgettotellof thethick,dreamysmellthatpermeatedthatroom,inspiringthesensethatmalodorousgardens of misshapen growths were budding in the dust and dirty cornerseverywherearoundme.

Theonlylightinthehousewasprovidedbytwolampsthatburnedoneithersideofamantleoverthefireplace.Behindeachoftheselampswasanovalmirrorinanornateframe,andthereflectedlightoftheirquiveringwicksthrewourshadowsontothewidebarewallatourbacks.Andwhilethetwoofusweresittingstillandsilent,Isawthoseothertwofidgetinguponthewall,asifwind-blownorperhapsundergoingsomesubtletorture.

“Ihave something foryou todrink,”he said. “Iknowhow far it is towalkfromthetown.”

And I did not have to feignmy thirst, good people, for itwas such that Iwantedtoswallowthestorm,whichIcouldhearbeyondthedoorandthewallsbutcouldonlyseeasabrillianceoccasionallyflashingbehindthecurtainsorshiningneedle-brightbetweenthedullslatsoftheshutters.

Intheabsenceofmyhost,Idirectedmyeyestothetreasuresofhishouseandmadethemmyown.ButtherewassomethingIhadnotyetseen,somehowIfelt

this. Then again, I was sent to spy and so everything around me appearedsuspicious.CanyouseenowwhatIfailedtoseethen?Canyouseeitcomingintofocus throughmy eyes?Canyoupeek into those cobwebbed corners or scan thetitlesofthosetiltingbooks?Yes;butcanyounow, inthemaddestdreamofyourlives,peerintoplacesthathavenocornersandbearnonames?ThisiswhatItriedtodo:toseebeyondtheghoulishremnantsoftheVanLivenns;toseebeyondthehauntedstageuponwhichIhadmademyentrance.AndsoIhadtoturncornersinside-out with my eyes and to read the third side of a book’s page, seeking infutility to gaze atwhat I could then touchwith none ofmy senses. It remainedsomethingshapelessandnameless,dampishandsubmerged,somethingswampyandabysmalwhichopposedthepurecoldoftheautumnstormoutside.

When my host returned, he carried with him a dusty green bottle and asparkling glass, both ofwhich he set upon that little table between our chairs. Itookupthebottleanditfeltwarminmyhand.Expectingsomethickishdarkliquidtogushfromthebottle’sneck,Iwassurprisedtoseeonlythepurestliquidflowinginto theglass. Idrankand fora fewmomentswas removed toaworldof frozenlightthatlivedwithinthecoolandlimpidwater.

In the meantime, the blank-faced man had placed something else upon thetable.Itwasasmallmusicboxmadeofsomedarkwoodwhichlookedasifithadthe hardness of a jewel and was florid with strange designs that were at oncedistinctandimpossibletofocalize.“Ifoundthiswhilerummagingaboutthisplace,”thestrangersaid.Thenslowlyhedrewbackthecoveroftheboxandsatbackinhis chair. Iheldbothhandsaround that coldglassand listened to the still coldermusic.Thecrisplittlenotesthatarosefromtheboxwerelikestarsofsoundcomingoutinthetwilightshadowsandsilenceofthehouse.Thestormhadended,leavingtheworld outside muffled bywetness.Within those closed rooms, whichmightnowhavebeen transported to thebrinkofa chasmordeep inside theearth, themusicglimmeredlikeinfinitesimalflakesoflightinthatbarrendécorofdeaddays.Neitherofus appeared tobebreathing, andeven the shadowsbehindour chairswerecharmedwithenchantedimmobility.Everythingheldforamomenttoallow

the wandering music from the box to pass on toward some sublimely terribledestination.Itriedtofollowit—throughtheyellowishhazeoftheroomanddeepintothedarknessthatpressedagainstthewalls,andthendeeperintothedarknessbetweenthewalls, thenthroughthewallsand intotheunborderedspaceswherethosesilverytonesascendedandquivered likeaswarmof insects.Therewasstillbeautyinthisvision,howevertingeditwaswiththesinister.EvenatthatpointIfeltIcouldlosemyselfinthevastnessspreadingaboutme,atenebrousexpanserichwithunknownexploits.Butthensomethingbeganstirring,irruptinglikeadisease,pokingitshorriblycoloredheadthroughthecoolblackness…andchasingmebacktomybody.

“Sowhatdidyouthink?Itwasgettingbadtowardtheend,wasn’tit?Iclosedtheboxbeforeitgotworse.WouldyousayIwascorrectinmyaction?”

“Yes,”Isaid,myvoicetrembling.“Icouldseeitonyourface.Mypurposewasn’ttoharmyou.Ijustwantedto

showyousomething—togiveyouaglimpse.”Idranktherestofthewater,thensettheglassIwasstillholdingonthetable.

Settlingdownabit,Isaid,“Andwhatwasitthatyoushowedme?”“Themadness of things,” he said.And he pronounced thesewords calmly,

precisely,whilestaringintomyeyestoseehowIwouldreact.Ofcourse,Ihadtohearmore.Afterall,thatwaswhyIwasthere,wasitnot?

Canyouhearmeinyourdreams,myfriends?“Themadness of things,” I reiterated, trying to drawmore from him. “I’m

afraidIdon’tunderstand.”“NordoI.Butthat isallIcansayaboutit.ThosearetheonlywordsIcan

use.Theonly ones that apply.Once I delighted in them.As a young student inphilosophyIusedtosaytomyself,‘Iamgoingtolearnthemadnessofthings.’ThiswassomethingIfeltIneededtoknow—thatIneededtoconfront.IfIcouldfacethemadnessofthings,Ithought,thenIwouldhavenothingmoretofear.Icouldlive in the universewithout feeling Iwas coming apart,without feeling Iwouldexplodewiththemadnessofthingsthattomymindformedtheveryfoundationof

existence. I wanted to tear off the veil and see things as they are, not to blindmyselftothem.”

“Anddidyousucceed?”Iasked,notcaringintheleastifIwerelisteningtoalunatic,sofascinatedwasIbywhathehadtosay.ThoughIcouldhardlygrasphiswords,Iknewtherewassomethinginthemthatwasnotalientome,andforsomemoments I was distracted by their implications. For who among us has notexperienced something that couldbecalled themadnessof things?Even ifwedonotuse thoseexactwords,wemustat sometime inour liveshavehada senseoftheir meaning. We must have touched, or been touched, by that derangementwhichthestranger thought tobe the foundationofexistence. Ifnothingelse,mygood people, we have all known the fate of theVan Livenns. It would not beunusual ifweponderedinthesolitudeofourmindswhatwecalltheir“tragedy”andwonderedatthisworldofours.

“Succeeded?” said the stranger, bringingme back tomyself. “Oh, yes.OnlytoowellIwouldsay.Isucceededintearingmyselfloosefromallmyfears,andevenfromtheworlditself.NowIamavagabondoftheuniverse,adrifteramongspaceswhere the madness of things has no limits. One day, after years of study andpractice,Igavemyselfovertowhateverawaitedme.ButIcannotsaywhereI go orwhy I go there.Everything is somuch chaos inmy existence. Somehow,though,Ialwayscomebacktothisworld,asifIweresomecreaturethatreturnsonoccasion to itshomeground.Theseplaces atwhich I arrive seem todrawme tothem,asiftheyhavebeenprepared,eveninvadedbeforeme.Fortherearealwaysthings,littleitems,thatarejustwhatIwouldexpect.Thatmusicbox,forinstance.I lookedarounduntil I foundsomethingof that sort.By itsdesigns I could see ithad been touched by the madness of things, and so could you, I noticed.Whathavocitmusthavecausedforthoseunreadyforsuchphenomena.Whathappenedinthishouse?Icanonlywonder.”

AndsothetragedyoftheVanLivennswasilluminated.Whichofthemhadcome across themusic boxwhere itmust have lain hidden forwho knows how

long?Overtime,theymusthaveallbecomeitsvictims.Theconditionofthehouseanditsgrounds—thatwasthefirstsign.Andthentheshoutingwebegantohearfrom inside thatmadeus stay away.Whatdid it allmean? Itwas almost a yearbefore therewereno longerany soundsoranymovementbehind the shuttersofthehouse.Soonafter,thefivebodieswerefound,someofthemdeadlongerthanothers.Noneof themwhole.Allof themsavagedbeyondwhatwashuman.Wewanted to think it was a stranger, but could not do so for long. Not after aninspectionwasconducted,andtheconclusiondrawnthattheyhadgoneafteroneanother over at least amonth’s time.They said that oldmanVanLivennmusthavebeenthelastofthem.Hisbodywasamessofhackedpieces,buthemusthavedoneithimself,judgingbytheaxethatwasstillgrippedinhisdeadhand.

“Excuse me,” said the stranger, once again arousing me from a state ofdistraction.Hewasnowstandingbytheshutteredwindow,peeringthrougharowofslatshehadpulledopen.Withaslowmovementofhishand,hebeckonedmetojoinhim,surreptitiouslyitseemed.“Look.Canyouseethem?”

ThroughtheslatsoftheshutteredwindowIcouldseesomethingoutside,justwheretheVanLivennshadoncecultivatedtheirmuch-admiredgardeninbygonedays. But what I saw was like the designs on the music box—intricate yetindistinct.

“Theyalmostlooklikeflowers,don’tthey?Sobrightlycoloredastheyshineinthenight.AndyetwhenIfirstcameuponthem—notinthisbody,ofcourse—almosteverythingwasdark.Butitwasn’tdarkasahouseissometimesdarkorasthewoodsaredarkbecauseof thick treeskeepingout the light. Itwasdarkonlybecausetherewasnothingtokeepoutthedarkness.HowdoIknowthis?IknowbecauseIcouldseewithmorethanmyeyes—Icouldseewiththedarknessitself.WiththedarknessIsawthedarkness.Itwasimmensitywithoutendaroundme—unbroken expansion, dark horizon meeting dark horizon. And there were alsothingswithinthedarkness,andIbelievewithinmyownform,sothatifIreachedout to touch them across a universe of darkness, I also reached deep inside ofmyself,suchasIwas.YetallIcouldfeelwerethosethings,theflowers.Totouch

them was like touching light and colors and a thousand kinds of bristling andgrowing shapes. In all that darkness which let me see with itself, these thingssquirmed, awormymass thatwas trying tomake itself part ofme. Imust havebrought them here when I came to this place. After I took this shape, theyabandonedmeandburrowedintothatgroundoverthere.Theybrokethroughtheearththatsamenight,andIthoughttheywouldcomeafterme.Butsomehowthesituation had changed. I think they like beingwhere they are now.You can seeyourselfhowtheytwistabout,almosthappily.”

Afterthesewordshe fell silent foramoment. Itwasadarknight, theskiesstillblanketedbythecloudsthatearlierhadbroughttherain.Thelampsuponthemantleshonewithapiercing lightthatcutshadowsoutof theclothofblacknessaround us.Why, good people,was I so astonished that this phantom beforemecouldwalkacrosstheroomandactuallyliftoneofthelamps,thencarryittowardthebackhallwayofthehouse?Hepaused,turned,andgesturedformetofollow.

“Nowyouwillseethembetterforthedarkness.Thatis,ifyouwouldseethetruemadness.”

Oh, my friends, please do not despise me for the choice I made this night.Remember itwasyouwhosentme, forIwastheonewhobelonged leasttoourtown.

Quietlywewalkedfromthehouse,asifweweretwochildrensneakingawayforanight inthewoods.Thelamplightskimmedacrossthewetgrassbehindthehouseandthenpausedwheretheyardendedandthewoodsbegan, fragrantandwind-blown.The lightmoved to the left and Imovedwith it, toward that areawhereagardenoncegrew.

“Look at themwriggling in the light,” he saidwhen the first rays fell on aconvulsingtangleofshapes,liketheradiantentrailsofhell.Buttheshapesquicklydisappeared into the darkness and out of view, pulling themselves from the rain-softenedsoil.“Theyretreatfromthislight.Andyouseehowtheyreturntotheirplaceswhenthelightiswithdrawn.”

They closed in again like partedwaters rushing to remerge.But thesewere

corruptwaterswhosecurrentshadcongealedanddiversifiedintocreaturelyformsstrungwithstickyandpumpingveins,hungwithworkingmouths.

“Movethelightascloseasyoucantothegarden,”Isaid.Hesteppedtotheveryedge,asIsteppedfartherstilltowardthatretreating

floodofslimytendrils,thoseaberrationsoftheabyss.WhenIwasdeepintotheirmesh, Iwhisperedbehindme: “Don’t lose the light, or theywill cover again theground I am standing on. I can see them so well. The true madness. I haveconfronteditwithoutfear.”

“No,”saidthestranger.“Youarenotprepared.Comebacktothelightbeforethecandleblowsout.”

ButIdidnotlistentohim,ortothewindthatroseup.Itcamedownfromthetreesandsweptacrossthegarden,throwingitintodarkness.

Andthewindnowcarriesmywordstoyou,goodpeople.Icannotbetheretoguideyou,butyouknownowwhatmustbedone,bothtothishorriblehouseandto its garden that was brought into this world by one who doomed himself towander other worlds. Please, one last word to stir your sleep. I rememberscreamingtothestranger:

They are drawing me into themselves.My eyes can see everything in thedarkness.IamnotwhoIam.Canyouhearme?Canyouhearmywords?

“I just had the most terrible dream,” whispered one of the many who wereawakeninginthedarkbedroomsofthetown.

“Itwasnotadream.Canyouheartheothersoutside?”Anight-gowned figure rose from the bed andmoved as a silhouette to the

window.Downinthestreetwasacrowdcarryinglightsandrappingondoorsforthosestilldreamingtojointhem.Theirlampsandlanternsbobbedinthedarkness,and the fires of their torches flickeredmadly.Clusters of flame shot up into thenight.

Thepeopleofthetownsaidnotawordtooneanother,buttheyknewwheretheyweregoingandwhattheywoulddotofreetheirfellowcitizen,myownself,fromhistragedy.Andthoughtheireyessawnothingbutthewilddestructionthatlay ahead, buried like a forgotten dreamwithin each one of themwas a perfectpicture of other eyes and of the unspeakable shapes in which they were nowembedded.Butdonot letyour firesburnoutwhileyougoaboutyourwork.Donot let themtakeyou, too, into theirunearthly realm.Come, then, andclosemyeyes.Murder the beings into which they have been drawn. Then shutter yourmindsaswellasyoucantotheabyssthatishometothemadnessofthings.

Nethescurial

TheIdolandtheIsland

Ihaveuncoveredaratherwonderfulmanuscript,theletterbegan.Itwasanentirelyfortuitous find,madeduringmyday’sdreary laborsamongsomeoftheolderandmoredecomposed remains entombed in the library archives. If I amany judgeofantiquedocuments,andofcourseIam,thesebrittlepagesdatebacktotheclosingdecadesofthelastcentury.(Amorepreciseestimateofagewillfollow,alongwithaphotocopywhichIfearwillnotdojusticetothedelicate,crinklyscript,nortothegreenish black discoloration the ink has taken on over the years.)Unfortunatelythere is no indication of authorship eitherwithin themanuscript itself or in thenumerousandtediouspaperswhosecompany ithasbeenkeeping,noneofwhichseem related to the item under discussion. And what an item it is—a realstorybook stranger in a crowd of documentary types, and probably destined toremainunknown.

Iamalmostcertainthatthisinvention,thoughattimesitseemstoposeasaletter or journal entry, has never appeared in common print. Given the bizarrenatureofitscontent,Iwouldsurelyhaveknownofitbeforenow.Althoughitisanuntitled“statement”ofsorts,theopeninglinesweremorethanenoughtocausemetoputeverythingelseasideandsecludemyselfinacornerofthelibrarystacksfortherestoftheafternoon.

Soitbegins:“Amidtheroomsofourhousesandbeyondtheirwalls—beneathdark waters and across moonlit skies—below earth mound and above mountainpeak—in northern leaf and southern flower—inside each star and the voidsbetween them—within blood and bone—throughout all souls and spirits—uponthewatchfulwindsofthisandtheseveralworlds—behindthefacesofthelivingandthedead…”Andthere it trailsoff,aquoted fragmentof somemoreancienttext.Butthisiscertainlynotthelastwewillhearofthisramblingrefrain!

Asithappens,theabovestringofphrasesiscitedbythenarratorinreferencetoacertainpresence,moreproperlyanomnipresence,whichheencountersonanobscure island located at someunspecified northern latitude. Briefly, he has beensummoned to this island, which appears on a local map under the name ofNethescurial, in order to rendezvouswith anotherman, an archaeologistwho is

designated only as Dr. N—and who will come to know the narrator of themanuscriptbytheself-admittedaliasof“BartholomewGray.”

Dr.N—,itseems,hasbeenoccupyinghimselfuponthatbarren,remote,andotherwise uninhabited isle with some peculiar antiquarian rummagings. AsMr.Graysailstowardtheislandheobservesthemurkyskiesabovehimandthemurkywaters below.His prose style is somewhat plain formy taste, but it serveswellenoughonceheapproachestheislandandtakessurprisinglyscrupulousnoticeofitseerie aspect: contorted rock formations; pointed pines and spruces of giganticstatureanduncannymovements;themasklikecountenanceofsea-facingcliffs;andasickly,stagnantfogclingingtothelandscapelikeafungus.

From themomentMr.Gray begins describing the island, a sudden glamourentersintohisaccount—thatsinisterenchantmentwhichderivesfromaprofoundevilthatiskeptatjusttherightdistancefromussothatwemayexperiencebothour love and our fear of it in one sweeping sensation.Too close andwemayberemindedof anomnipresent evil in the livingworld, and threatenedwithhavingoursleepingsenseofdoomawakenedintofullvigor.Toofarawayandwebecomeeven more incurious and complacent than is our usual state, and ultimatelyexasperatedwhen an imaginary evil is so poorly evoked that it fails to offer thefaintest echo of its real and all-pervasive counterpart. Of course, any number oflocales may serve as the setting to reveal ominous truths; evil, beloved andmenacingevil,mayshowitselfanywherepreciselybecauseitiseverywhereandisasstunninglysetoffbyafoilofsunshineandflowersasitisbydarknessanddeadleaves.Apurelyprivatequirk,nevertheless,sometimesallowsthepurestessenceoflife’smalignitytobearousedonlybysitessuchasthelonelyislandofNethescurial,wheretherealandtheunrealswirlfreelyandmadlyaboutinthesamefog.

It seems that in this place, this far-flung realm, Dr. N—has discovered anancient and long-sought artifact, a marginal but astonishing entry in thatunspeakably voluminous journal of creation. Soon after landfall,Mr. Gray findshimself verifying the truth of the archaeologist’s claims: that the island has beenstrangelymoldedinallitsparts,andwithinitsshoreseverymanifestationofplant

or mineral or anything whatever appears to have fallen at the mercy of someshaping force of demonic temperament, a genius loci which has sculpted itsnightmaresoutoftheatomsofthelocalearth.Closerinspectionofthisinsularspoton themap serves todeepen the senseof evil enchantment thathadbeen lightlysketchedearlierinthemanuscript.ButIrefrainfromfurtherquotation(itisgettinglate and I want to wrap up this letter before bedtime) in order to cut straightthrough the epidermis of this tale and penetrate to its very bones and viscera.Indeed, themanuscript does seem tohave an anatomyof its own, its dark greenholography rippling over it like veins, and I regret that my paraphrase may notdeliveritalive.Enough!

Mr.Graymakeshiswayinland, luggingalongwithhimafat littletravelingbag. In a clearing he comes upon a large but unadorned, almost primitive housewhichstandsagainstthebackdropoftheisland’swartlikehillsandtumoroustrees.The outside of the house is encrusted with the motley and leprous stones soabundantinthesurroundinglandscape.Theinsideofthehouse,whichthevisitorsees upon opening the unlocked door, is spacious as a cathedral but far lessornamented.Thewalls arewhite and smoothly surfaced; theyalso seem to taperinward,pyramid-like,astheyrisefromfloortoloftyceiling.Therearenowindows,andnumerousoil lampsscatteredaboutfilltheinteriorofthehousewithasacralglow.Afiguredescendsalongstaircase,crossesthegreatdistanceoftheroom,andsolemnly greets his guest.At firstwary of each other, they eventually achieve adegreeofmutualeaseandfinallygetdowntotheirtruebusiness.

Thus far one can see that the drama enacted is a familiar one: the stage isrigidlytraditionalandtheperformersuponitarecaughtupin itsstyle.Fortheseactorsarenotsomuchpeopleastheyarepuppetsfromtheoldshows,theonesthathavetoldthesamestoryforcenturies,theonesthatcanstillbeverystrangetous.Traipsing through the sameold foggy scene, seeking the sameold isolatedhouse,thepuppetsintheseplaysalwaysfindeverythingnewandunknown,becausetheyhavenomemories to speak of and canhardly recallmaking these stiltedmotionscountless times in the past.They struggle through the same gestures, repeat the

samelines,althoughinraremomentstheymayfeeladimsuspicionthatthishasallhappenedbefore.Howliketheyaretothehumanrace itself!This iswhatmakesthemourperfect representatives—this and the fact that theyarehand carved inthe image of maniacal victims who seek to share the secrets of their individualtormentsastheirstringsaremanipulatedbythesamemaster.

The secrets which these two Punchinellos share are rather deviouslypresentedbytheauthorofthisconfession(foruponconsiderationthisisthegenreto which it truly belongs). Indeed, Mr. Gray, or whatever his name might be,appears to know much more than he is telling, especially with respect to hiscolleaguethearchaeologist.Nevertheless, he recordswhatDr.N—knows and,more importantly,what thisavidexcavatorhasfoundburiedontheisland.Thethingisonlyafragmentofanobjectdatingfromantiquity.Knowntobepartofareligiousidol, itisdifficulttosaywhichpart.Itisatwistedpieceofapuzzle,onesuggestingthatthefigureasawhole iswickedlyrepulsive in itsdesign.The fragment isalsodarkenedwiththeverdigrisofcenturies,causingitssubstancetoresemblesomethinglikedecomposingjade.

Andwere theotherpiecesof this idol also tobe foundon the same island?Theanswerisno.Theidolseemstohavebeenshatteredagesago,andeachbrokenpartofitburiedinsomeremoteplacesothatitsentiretymightnoteasilybejoinedtogether again.Although it was a mere representation, the effigy itself was thefocus of a great power. The members of the ancient sect which was formed toworshipthispowerseemtohavebeenpantheistsofasort,believingthatallcreatedthings—appearances to the contrary—are of a single, unified, and transcendentstuff,anemanationofacentralcreative force.Hencetheritualchantwhichruns“amidtheroomsofourhouses,”etcetera,andalludestotheall-presentnatureofthisdeity—amostprimalandpervasivetypeofgod,onethatfallsintothecategoryof“godswhoeclipseallothers,”territorialistdivinitieswhoseclaimtothecreationpurportedlysupersedesthatoftheirrivals.(Thewordsofthefamouschant,bytheway,aretheonlyonestocomedowntousfromtheancientcultandappearedfor

thefirsttimeinanethnographical,quasi-esotericworkentitledIlluminationsoftheAncientWorld,whichwaspublishedinthelatterpartofthenineteenthcentury,aroundthesametime,Iwouldguess,asthismanuscriptIamrushingtosummarizewaswritten.)Atsomepointintheircareerasworshipersofthe“GreatOneGod,”ashadowfelluponthesect.Itappearsthatonedayitwasrevealedtothem,inamanner both obscure and hideous, that the power to which they bowed wasessentiallyevilincharacterandthattheirreligiousmodeofpantheismwasintrutha kind of pandemonism. But this revelation was not a surprise to all of thesectarians, since there seems tohavebeenan internecine strugglewhichended inslaughter. In any case, the anti-demonists prevailed, and they immediatelyrechristenedtheirex-deitytoreflect itsnewlydiscoveredessence inevil.AndthenamebywhichtheyhenceforthcalleditwasNethescurial.

Aniceturnofaffairs:thisobscureislandopenlyadvertisesitselfasthehomeoftheidolofNethescurial.Ofcourse,theislandisonlyoneofseveraltowhichthepieces of the vandalized totemwere scattered. The originalmembers of the sectwhohadtreacherouslyturnedagainsttheirgodknewthatthepowerconcentratedintheeffigycouldnotbedestroyed,andsotheydecidedtoparcelitouttoisolatedcornersoftheearthwhereitcoulddotheleastharm.Butwouldtheyhavebroughtattentiontothisfactbyallowingthesewidelydisseminatedburialplotstobearthenameofthepandemoniacalgod?Thisisdoubtful,justasitisequallyunlikelythatitwas theywhobuilt those crudehouses, templesof a fashion, tomark the spotwhereaparticularshardoftheoldidolmightbelocatedbyothers.

Thus,Dr.N—isforcedtopostulateasurvivalofthedemonistfactionofthesect, a cult that had devoted itself to searching out those placeswhichhad beentransformed by the presence of the idol and might thus be known by theirgruesomefeatures.Thisquestwouldrequireagreatdealoftimeandeffortforitscompletion,giventheglobalreacheswherethosesplintersofevilmightbetuckedaway.Knownasthe“seeking,”italsoinvolvedtheenlistmentofoutsiders,whoinlatterdayswereoften researchers into thewaysofbygone cultures, though theyremained ignorant that the cause they served was still a living one. Dr. N—

thereforewarnshis“colleague,Mr.Gray,”thattheymaybeindangerfromthosewho carried on the effort to reassemble the idol and revive its power.The verypresenceofthatgreatandcrudehouseontheislandcertainlyprovedthatthecultwas already aware of the location of this fragment of the idol. In fact, themysterious Mr. Gray, not unexpectedly, is actually a member of the cult in itsmodern incarnation; furthermore, he has broughtwith him to the island—bulkytraveling bag, you know—all the other pieces of the idol, which have beenrecovered through centuries of seeking. Now he only needs the one piecediscoveredbyDr.N—tomakethe idolwholeagainforthefirsttime inacouplemillennia.

But he also needs the archaeologist himself as a kind of sacrifice toNethescurial,aceremonywhichtakesplacelaterthesamenightintheupperpartof thehouse. If Imaytelescope theending forbrevity’s sake, the sacrificial ritualholdssomehorrificsurprisesforMr.Gray(thesepeopleseemnevertorealizewhatthey are getting themselves into), who soon repents of his evil practices and isdriventosmashthe idol topiecesoncemore.Makinghisescape fromthatweirdisland, he throws these pieces overboard, sowing the cold graywaters with thescraps of an incredible power. Later, fearing an obscure threat to his existence(perhaps the reprisal of his fellow cultists), he composes an account of a horrorwhichisbothhisownandthatofthewholehumanrace.

Endofmanuscript.*

Now,despitemypenchantforsuchwildyarnsasIhavejustattemptedtodescribe,Iamnotoblivioustotheirshortcomings.Foronething,whateveremotionalimpactthenarrativemayhavelostintheforegoingprécis,itcertainlygainedincoherence.The incidents in the manuscript are clumsily developed; important details lackproperemphasis;andimpossiblethingsarethrownatthereaderwithoutanyrealeffortatpersuasionoftheirveracity.Idoadmirethefantasticprincipleatthecore

ofthispiece.Thenatureofthatpandemoniacentityisveryintriguing.Imagineallof creation as ameremask for the foulest evil, an absolute evilwhose reality ismitigatedonlybyourblindnesstoit,anevilattheheartofthings,existing“insideeachstarandthevoidsbetweenthem—withinbloodandbone—throughallsoulsandspirits,”andsoforth.Thereisevenareferenceinthemanuscriptthatsuggestsan analogy between Nethescurial and that beautiful myth of the Australianaborigines known as theAlchera (the Dreamtime, or Dreaming), a super-realitywhichisthesourceofallweseeintheworldaroundus.(Andthisreferencewillbeusefulindatingthemanuscript,sinceitwastowardtheendofthelastcenturythat Australian anthropologists made the aboriginal cosmology known to thegeneral public.) Imagine the universe as the dream, the feverish nightmare of ademonicdemiurge.OSupremeNethescurial!

Theproblemisthatsuchsupernaturalinventionsareindeedquitedifficulttoimagine.Sooftentheyfailtomaterializeinthemind,totakeonamentaltexture,and thus remain unfelt as anything but an abstractmonster of metaphysics—anelegant or awkward schematic that cannot rise from the paper to touch us. Ofcourse,wedoneedtokeepacertaindistance fromsuchspectersasNethescurial,andthisisusuallysecuredthroughthemediumofwordsassuch,whichensnareallkindsofmenacing creaturesbefore they can tearusbodyand soul. (Andyet thewords of this particular manuscript seem rather weak in this regard, possiblybecause they are only the drab green scratchings of a human hand and not theheavymesh of black type.) Butwe dowant to get close enough to feel the foulbreath of these beasts, or to see themas prehistoric leviathans circling about thetiny islandonwhichwehave takenrefuge.Even ifweare incapableofa sincerebelief in ancient cults and their unheard of idols, even if these pseudonymousadventurersandarchaeologistsappear tobemere shadowsonawall,andeven ifstrange houses on remote islands are of shaky construction, there may still be apowerinthesethingsthatthreatensuslikeabaddream.Andthispoweremanatesnotsomuchfromwithinthetaleasitdoesfromsomewherebehindit,someplaceofinfinitedarknessandubiquitousmalignityinwhichwemaywalkunaware.

Butnevermind thesenight thoughts; it’s only to bed that Iwillwalk afterclosingthisletter.

Postscript

Laterthesamenight.SeveralhourshavepassedsinceIsetdowntheabovedescriptionandanalysis

of thatmanuscript.Hownaive thosewords ofmine now sound tome.And yetthey are still true enough, froma certainperspective.But thatperspectivewas aprivilegedonewhich,atleastforthemoment,Idonotenjoy.Thedistancebetweenmeandadevastatingevilhaslessenedconsiderably.Inolongerfinditsodifficulttoimagine thehorrorsdelineated in thatmanuscript, for Ihaveknown them in themost intimateway.What a fool I seem tomyself for playingwith such visions.How easily a simple dream can destroy one’s sense of safety, if only for a fewturbulenthours.CertainlyIhaveexperiencedallthisbefore,butneverasacutelyastonight.

Ihadnotbeenasleepforlongbutapparentlylongenough.AtthestartofthedreamIwas sittingatadesk inaverydark room. It also seemed tome that theroomwasverylarge,thoughIcouldseelittleofitbeyondtheareaofthedesktop,at either end ofwhich glowed a lamp of some kind. Spread out beforemeweremanypapersvaryinginsize.TheseIknewtobemapsofonesortoranother,andIwas studying them each in turn. I hadbecomequite absorbed in their chartings,whichnowdominatedthedreamtotheexclusionofallotherimages.Eachofthemfocusedonsomeconcatenationofislandswithoutreferencetolarger,morefamiliarlandmasses.Apowerful impressionofremotenessandseclusionwasconveyedbythese irregular daubs of earth fixed in bodies of water that were unnamed. Butalthoughthelocationoftheislandswasnotspecific,somehowIwassurethatthosefor whom the maps were meant already had this knowledge. Nevertheless, thissecrecywasonlysuperficial,fornoesoterickeywasrequiredtoseekoutthegreater

geography of which these maps were an exaggerated detail: they were alldistinguishedbysomeknownlanguageinwhichtheislandswerenamed,differentlanguages for different maps. Yet upon closer view (indeed, I felt as if I wereactually journeyingamongthoseexotic fragmentsof land, tinypiecesof shatteredmystery), I saw that everymaphadone thing in common:within each groupofislands,whatever languagewas used to name them, therewas always one calledNethescurial.Itwasasifallovertheworldthisterriblenamehadbeeninsinuatedinto diverse locales as the only one suitable for a certain island.Of course therewerevariantcognate formsandspellings, sometimestransliterations,of theword.(HowpreciselyIsawthem!)Still,withthestrangeconvictionthatmayovercomeadreamer,IknewtheseplaceshadallbeenclaimedinthenameofNethescurialandthat they bore the unique sign of somethingwhich had been buried there—thepiecesofthatdismemberedidol.

Andwiththisthought,thedreamreshapeditself.Themapsdissolvedintoakindofmist;thedeskbeforemebecamesomethingelse,analtarofcoarsestone,andthetwolampsuponitflareduptorevealastrangeobjectnowpositionedbetweenthem.Somanyvisionsinthedreamwerepiercinglyclear,butthisdarkobjectwasnot.Myimpressionwasthatitwasconglomerateinform,suggestingamonstrouswhole. At the same time these outlines which alluded to both man and beast,flowerand insect, reptiles, stones,andcountless things Icouldnotevenname,allseemed to be changing,mingling in a thousandways that prevented any sensibleimageoftheidol.

With the upsurge in illumination offered by the lamps, I could see that theroomwas truly of unusual dimensions.The four enormouswalls slanted towardoneanotherandjoinedatapointhighabovethefloor,givingthespacearoundmethe shape of a perfect pyramid. But I now saw things from an oddly remoteperspective:thealtarwithitsidolstoodinthemiddleoftheroomandIwassomedistanceaway,orperhapsnoteveninthescene.Then,fromadarkcornerorsecretdoor, there emerged a file of figureswalking slowly toward the altar and finallycongregatinginahalf-circlebeforeit.Icouldseethattheywereallquiteskeletalin

shape, for each of themwas identically dressed in a black material which clungtightlytotheirbodiesandmadethemlooklikeskinnyshadows.Theyseemedtobeactuallybound inblackness fromheadto foot,withonly their facesexposed.Buttheywerenot, in fact, faces—theywerepale,expressionless,and identicalmasks.The masks were without openings and bestowed upon their wearers a terribleanonymity,anancientanonymity.Behindthesesmoothandbarelycontouredfaceswerespiritsbeyondallhopeorconsolationexceptintheeviltowhichtheywouldwillinglyabandonthemselves.Yetthisabandonmentwasahighlyselectiveprocess,aceremonyofthechosen.

Oneof thewhite-faced shadowsstepped forward fromthegroup, seeminglydrawnforthintotheproximityoftheidol.Thefigurestoodmotionless,whilefromwithinitsdarkbodysomethingbegantodriftoutlikeluminoussmoke.Itfloated,swirlinggently,towardtheidolandtherewasabsorbed.AndIknew—forwasthisnotmyowndream?—thattheidolanditssacrificewerebecomingonewithineachother. This spectacle continued until nothing of the glowing, ectoplasmic hazeremainedtobeextracted,andthefigure—nowshrunkentothesizeofamarionette—collapsed. But soon it was being lifted, rather tenderly, by another from thegroupwhoplacedthedwarfishformuponthealtarand,takingupaknife,carveddeep into the body, making no sound. Then something oozed upon the altar,somethingthickandoilyandstrangelycolored,darklycoloredthoughnotwithanyof the shades of blood.Although the strangeness of this colorwasmore an ideathanamatterofvision,itbegantofillthedreamandtodeterminethefinalstageofitsdevelopment.

Quite abruptly, that closed, cavernous roomdissolved into a stretch of landthatwasclutteredwithabric-a-bractopographywhosecrazedshapeswereofthatsingle and sinister color, as if everythingwere coveredwithanancient,darkenedmold. Itwasa landscape thatmightoncehavebeenof stoneandearthand trees(suchwasmy impression) but had been transformed entirely into something likepetrifiedlichen.Spreadingbeforeme,twistinginthewayofwroughtirontraceryorgreatovergrowngardensofwrithingcoral,wasan intricate latticeworkwhose

surfacewasoverrunwithachaosoflittlecarvings,scabbydesignsthatsuggestedaworldofdemonicfacesandforms.AndtheircomplexionwassomuchlikeallelseIhave described that I felt therewas nowhere I could turn, not even tomy ownflesh,toescapeitsaspect.ItwasthenIsensedthatpeculiarpanicwellingupwithinmethatoftenprecedesone’semergencefromanightmare.YetbeforeIbrokefreeofmydream,Ibeheldonefurtheroccurrenceoftheubiquitouscolorofthat island.Asiftoheightenthehorrorofmyoneiricvisions,itwasalsothecoloroftheinkishwaterswashingupontheisland’sshoresandtrendingintothefardistance.

AsIwroteafewpagesago,Ihavebeenawakeforsomehoursnow.WhatIdidnotmentionwasthestate inwhichIfoundmyselfafterwaking.Throughoutthedream,andparticularlyinthoselastmomentswhenIpositivelyidentifiedthatfoul place, therewas an unseen presence, something I could feel was circulatingwithinallthingsandunifyingtheminaninfinitelyextensivebodyofevil.Isupposeit isnothingunusualthatIcontinuedtobeunderthisvisionaryspellevenafterIleftmybed. I tried to invoke thegodsof theordinaryworld—calling themwiththewhistleofacoffeepotandprayingbeforetheiriconoftheelectriclight—buttheywere tooweak to deliverme from that otherwhose name I can no longerbringmyselftowrite.Itseemedtobeinpossessionofmyhouse,ofeverycommonobject inside and thewhole of the darkworld outside. Yes—lurking among thewatchful winds of this and the several worlds. Everything seemed to be amanifestationofthisevilandtomyeyeswastakingonitsaspect.Icouldfeelitalsoemerging in myself, growing stronger behind this living face that I am afraid toconfrontinthemirror.

Nevertheless, thesedream-induced illusionsnowseemtobeabating,perhapsdrivenoffbymywritingaboutthem.Likesomeonewhohashadtoomuchtodrinkthe night before and swears off liquor for life, I have forsworn any furtherindulgence inweird readingmatter.Nodoubt this isonlya temporaryvow,andsoonenoughmyoldhabitswillreturn.Butcertainlynotbeforemorning!

ThePuppetsinthePark

ThePuppetsinthePark

Somedayslater,andquitelateatnight.Well, it seems this letter has mutated into a chronicle of my adventures

Nethescurialian.See,Icannowwritethatuniquenomenwithease;furthermore,Ifeelalmostnoapprehensioninsteppinguptomymirror.SoonImayevenbeabletosleepinthewayIoncedid,withoutvisionaryintrusionsofanykind.Nodenyingthatmyexperiencesoflatehavetippedthescalesofthestrange.Ifoundmyselfjustwalking restlessly about—impossible to work, you know—and always carryingwithmethisheavydreadinmysolarplexus,asifIhadfeastedatabanquetoffearand the meal would not digest. Most strange, since I have been loath to takenourishment during this time. How could I ingest even the least morsel wheneverything lookedtheway itdid?Hardenoughtotouchadoorknoborapairofshoes,evenwiththeprotectionofgloves.Icouldfeeleverydamnthingsquirming,not excludingmy own flesh.And I could also seewhatwas squirming beneathevery surface, my vision penetrating through the usual armor of objects anddiscerningthesamegushingstuffinsidewhateverI lookedupon.Itwasthatdarkcolorfromthedream,Icouldidentifyitclearlynow.Darkandgreenish.HowcouldI possibly feedmyself?How could I evenbringmyself to settle very long in onespot?SoIkeptonthemove.AndItriednottolooktoocloselyathoweverything,everythingwascrawlingwithin itselfandmakingallkindsof shapes inside there,making all kinds of faces at me. (Yet it was really all the same face, everythinggorgedwiththatsamecreepingstuff.)TherewerealsosoundsthatIheard,voicesspeakingvaguewords,voicesthatcamenotfromthemouthsofthepeopleIpassedonthestreetbutfromtheverybottomoftheirbrains,garbledwhisperingsatfirstandthensoclear,soeloquent.

This rising wave of chaos reached its culmination tonight and then camecrashingdown.Butmytimelymaneuvering,Itrust,hasputeverythingrightagain.

Here,now,aretheterminaleventsofthisnightmareastheyoccurred.(AndhowIwishIwerenotspeakingfiguratively,thatIwasinfactonlyintheworldof

dreamsorbackinthepagesofbooksandoldmanuscripts.)Thisconclusionhaditsbeginninginthepark,aplacethatisactuallysomedistancefrommyhome,sofarhadIwandered.Itwasalreadylateatnight,butIwasstillwalkingabout,treadingthenarrowasphaltpath thatwinds through that islandof grass and trees in themiddle of the city. (And somehow it seemed I had alreadywalked in this sameplaceonthissamenight,thatthishadallhappenedtomebefore.)Thepathwaslitbyglobesof lightbalanceduponslimmetalpoles;anotherglowingorbwasset inthegreatblackness above.Off thepath thegrasswasdarkenedby shadows, andthetreesswishingoverheadwerethesamecolorofmuddiedgreen.

Afterwalkingsomeindefinitetimealongsomeindefiniteroute,Icameuponaclearingwhereanaudiencehadassembledforalate-nightentertainment.Stringsofcoloredlightshadbeenhungaroundtheperimeterofthisareaandrowsofbencheshad been set up. The people seated on these benches were all watching a tall,illuminated booth. It was the kind of booth used for puppet shows, with wilddesigns painted across the lower part and a curtained opening at the top. Thecurtainswerenowdrawnbackandtwoclownishcreaturesweretwistingaboutina glary lightwhich emanated from inside the booth.They leaned and squawkedand awkwardly batted each other with soft paddles theywere hugging in theirlittle arms. Suddenly they froze at the height of their battle; slowly they turnedaboutand faced theaudience. It seemed thepuppetswere lookingdirectlyat theplaceIwasstandingbehindthelastrowofbenches.Theirmisshapenheadstilted,andtheirglassyeyesstaredstraightintomine.

ThenInoticedthat theothersweredoingthesame:allof themhadturnedaroundonthebenchesand,withexpressionlessfacesanddeadpuppeteyes,heldmeto the spot. Although their mouths didn’t move, they were not silent. But thevoices Iheardwere farmorenumerous thanwas thegatheringbeforeme.ThesewerethevoicesIhadbeenhearingastheychantedconfusedwordsinthedepthsofeveryone’s thoughts, fathomsbelow the level of their awareness.Thewords stillsounded hushed and slow, monotonous phrases mingling like the sequences of afugue.ButnowIcouldunderstandthesewords,evenasmorevoicespickedupthe

chantatdifferentpointsandoverlappedoneanother,saying,“Amidtheroomsofour houses—across moonlit skies—throughout all souls and spirits—behind thefacesofthelivingandthedead.”

IfinditimpossibletosayhowlongitwasbeforeIwasabletomove,beforeIbacked up toward the path, all those multitudinous voices chanting everywherearoundmeandallthosemany-coloredlightsbobbinginthewind-blowntrees.YetitnowseemedtobeonlyasinglevoiceIheard,andasinglecolorIsaw,asIfoundmywayhome,stumblingthroughthegreenishdarknessofthenight.

I knew what needed to be done. Gathering up some old boards from mybasement,Ipiledthemintothefireplaceandopenedtheflue.Assoonastheywereburningbrightly,Iaddedonemorethingtothefire:amanuscriptwhoseinkwasofacertaincolor.Blessedwithasavingvision,Icouldnowseewhosesignaturewasonthatmanuscript,whosehandhadreallywrittenthosepagesandhadbeenhidinginthemforahundredyears.Theauthorofthatnarrativehadbrokenuptheidolanddrowneditindeepwaters,butthestainofitsancientpatinahadstayeduponhim. It had invaded the author’s crabbed script of blackish green and survivedthere,waitingtocrawlintoanotherlostsoulwhofailedtoseewhatdarkplaceshewaswanderinginto.HowIknewthistobetrue!Andhasthisnotbeenprovedbythecolorofthesmokethatrosefromtheburningmanuscript,andkeepsrisingfromit?

Iamwriting thesewordsas I sitbefore the fireplace.The flameshavegoneoutbutstillthesmokefromthecharredpaperhoverswithinthehearth,refusingtoascend the chimney and disperse itself into the night. Perhaps the chimney hasbecomeblocked.Yes,thismustbethecase,thismustbetrue.Thoseotherthingsarelies,illusions.Thatmold-coloredsmokehasnottakenontheshapeoftheidol,the shape that cannotbe seen steadily andwholebutkeeps turningout somanyarmsandheads,somanyeyes,thenpullsthembackinandbringsthemoutagaininotherconfigurations.Thatshape isnotdrawingsomethingoutofmeandputtingsomethingelseinitsplace,somethingthatseemstobebleedingintothewordsasIwrite.Andmy pen is not growing bigger inmy hand, nor is my hand growing

smaller,smaller…See,thereisnoshapeinthefireplace.Thesmokeisgone,goneupthechimney

andoutintothesky.Andthereisnothinginthesky,nothingIcanseethroughthewindow.Thereisthemoon,ofcourse,highandround.Butnoshadowfallsacrossthemoon,nochurningchaosofsmokethatchokesthefrailorderoftheearth.Itisnotasquirming,creeping,smearingshapeIseeuponthemoon,nottheshapeofagreatdeformedcrabscuttlingoutof theblackoceansof infinityand invadingtheisland of the moon, crawling with its innumerable bodies upon all the spinningislandsof space.That shape isnot the cancerous totalityof all creatures,not theoozingichorthatflowswithinallthings.Nethescurialisnotthesecretnameofthecreation.Itisnotamidtheroomsofourhousesandbeyondtheirwalls—beneathdark waters and across moonlit skies—below earth mound and above mountainpeak—in northern leaf and southern flower—inside each star and the voidsbetween them—within blood and bone—throughout all souls and spirits—uponthewatchfulwindsofthisandtheseveralworlds—behindthefacesofthelivingandthedead.

Iamnotdyinginanightmare.

* except for the concluding lines, which reveal the somewhat extravagant, but not entirely uninteresting,

conclusionofthenarratorhimself.[back]

TheVoice

ofthe

DEMON

TheDreaminginNortown

Therearethosewhorequirewitnessestotheirdoom.Notcontentwithasolitaryperdition,theyseekanaudienceworthyofthespectacle—amindtorememberthestagesoftheirdownfallorperhapsonlyamirrortomultiplytheirabjectglory.Ofcourse,othermotivesmayfigure inthisscheme,onesfartootenuousandstrangefor mortal reminiscence. Yet there exists a memoir of dreams in which I mayrecollectanerstwhileacquaintancewhosenameI shallgiveas JackQuinn.For itwas he who sensed my peculiar powers of sympathy and, employing a rathercontrarystratagem,engagedthem.Thisallbegan,accordingtomyperspective,lateonenight in thedecayingandspaciousapartmentwhichQuinnandI sharedandwhichwaslocatedinthatcity—or,moreprecisely,inacertainregionwithinit—whereweattendedthesameuniversity.

Iwasasleep.Inthedarknessavoicewascallingmeawayfrommyill-mappedworldofdreams.Then somethingheavyweigheddown the edgeof themattressandaslightly infernalaromafilledtheroom,anacridcombinationoftobaccoandautumnnights.Asmallredglowwanderedinanarctowardtheapexoftheseatedfigure and there glowed even brighter, faintly lighting the lower part of a face.Quinnwas smiling, the cigar inhismouth smoking in thedarkness.He remainedsilent foramomentandcrossedhis legsbeneathhis longthreadbareovercoat,anancient thing that was wrapped loosely around him like a skin about to besloughed.SomanypungentOctoberswerecollectedinthatcoat.ItistheeventsofthismonththatIamremembering.

Iassumedhewasdrunk,orperhapsstillintheremoteheightsordepthsoftheartificialparadisehehadbeenexploring thatnight.WhenQuinn finally spoke, itwasdefinitelywiththestumblingwordsofa returningexplorer,a stuporousandvaguelyawedvoice.Butheseemedmorethansimplydrug-entranced.

Hehadattendedameeting,hesaid,speakingthewordinanoddwaywhichseemed to expand its significance.Of course therewere others at this gathering,peoplewho tome remained simply“thoseothers.” Itwasakindofphilosophicalsociety,hetoldme.Thegroupsoundedcolorfulenough:midnightassemblies, theprobableuseofdrugs,andparticipantsinthegripofstrangemysticalecstasies.

I got out of bed and switched on the light.Quinnwas a chaotic sight, hisclothesmorecrumpledthanusual,hisfaceflushed,andhislongredhairintricatelytangled.

“And exactlywhere did you go tonight?” I askedwith themeasure of truecuriosityheseemedtobeseeking.IhadthedistinctideathatQuinn’sactivitiesofthat evening had occurred in the vicinity of Nortown (another pseudonym, ofcourse,asareallthenamesinthisnarrative),wheretheapartmentwesharedwaslocated.Iaskedhimiftheyhad.

“Andperhapsinotherplaces,”heanswered,laughingalittletohimselfashemeditateduponthegrayendofhiscigar.“Butyoumightnotunderstand.Excuseme,Ihavetogotobed.”

“As you wish,” I replied, leaving aside all complaints about this nocturnalintrusion.He puffed on his cigar andwent to his room, closing the door behindhim.

This, then, was the beginning of Quinn’s ultimate phase of esotericdevelopment.Anduntilthefinalnight,Iactuallysawverylittleofhimduringthatmostdecisiveepisodeofhislife.Wewerepursuingdifferentcoursesofstudyinourgraduateschooldays—Iinanthropologyandhein… ittroublesmetosayIwasneverentirelysureofhisacademicprogram.Inanycase,ourrespectivetimetablesseldom intersected.Nonetheless,Quinn’sdailymovements,at least the fewIwasawareof,didinvitecuriosity.TherewasageneraltenorofchaosthatIperceivedinhisbehavior,aqualitywhichmayormaynotmakeforgoodcompanybutwhichalwaysofferspromiseoftheextraordinary.

He continued to come inquite late at night, always entering the apartmentwithwhat seemedacontrivednoisiness.After that firstnighthedidnotovertlyconfide his activities tome.The door to his roomwould close, and immediatelyafterwardIwouldhearhimcollapseontheoldspringsofhismattress.Itseemedhedid not undress for bed, perhaps never even removed the overcoat which wasbecomingshabbierandmorecrumpleddaybyday.Mysleeptemporarilyshattered,Ipassedthiswakefultimebyeavesdroppingonthenoisesinthenextroom.There

wasastrangecatalogueofsoundswhicheitherIhadnevernoticedbeforeorwhichweresomehowdifferentfromtheusualnightlydin:lowmoansemanatingfromthemost shadowy chasms of dream; sudden intakes of breath like the suction of astartledgasp;andabruptsnarlsandsnortsofabestialtimbre.Thewholerhythmofhis sleep betrayed expressions of unknown turmoil. And sometimes he wouldviolatethecalmdarknessofthenightwithaseriesofstaccatogroansfollowedbyabrief vocal siren thatmademeboltup suddenly inmybed.This alarming soundsurelycarriedtheentireaudiblespectrumofnightmare-inspiredterror…buttherewere also mingling overtones of awe and ecstasy, a willing submission to someunknownordeal.

“Have you finally died and gone to hell?” I shouted one night through hisbedroomdoor.Thesoundwasstillringinginmyears.

“Gobacktosleep,”heanswered,hislow-pitchedvoicestillspeakingfromthedeeperregistersofsomnolence.Thesmellofafreshly litcigarthenfilteredoutofhisbedroom.

After these late-night disturbances, I would sometimes sit up towatch theduncolorsofdawnstirringinthedistanceoutsidemyeasternwindow.AndastheweekswentbythatOctober,thecarnivalofnoisegoingoninthenextroombegantoworkitsstrangeinfluenceuponmyownsleep.SoonQuinnwasnottheonlyonein the apartment having nightmares, as I was inundated by a flood of eidetichorrorsthatleftonlyavagueresidueuponwaking.

Itwasthroughoutthedaythat fleetingscenesofnightmarewouldsuddenlyappear tomymind,briefandvivid,as thoughIhadmistakenlyopeneda strangedoor somewhere and, after inadvertently seeing something I should not have,quickly closed it once againwith a reverberating slam. Eventually, however,mydream-censorhimselffellasleep,andIrecalledintotaltheelusivematerialsofoneof thosenight-visions,which returned tomepainted in scenesofgarishlyvibrantcolors.

ThedreamtookplaceatasmallpubliclibraryinNortownwhereIsometimesretreatedtostudy.Ontheoneiricplane,however,Iwasnotastudiouspatronof

thelibrarybutoneofthelibrarians—theonlyone,itseemed,keepingvigilinthatdesolateinstitution.Iwas justsittingthere,complacentlysurveyingtheshelvesofbooks and laboringunder the illusion that inmy idleness Iwas performing someroutine but very important function. This did not continue very long—nothingdoesindreams—thoughthesituationwasonethatalreadyseemedinterminable.

Whatshatteredthestatusquo,initiatinganewphasetothedream,wasmydiscovery that a note scrawled upon a slip of paper had been left on the well-orderedsurfaceofmydesk.Itwasarequestforabookandhadbeensubmittedbya library patronwhose identity I puzzled over, for I had not seen anyone put itthere. I fretted about this scrap of paper for many dream-moments: had it beenthereevenbeforeIsatdownatthedeskandhadIsimplyoverlookedit?Isufferedadisproportionateanxietyoverthispossibledereliction.The imaginedthreatofareprimandofsomestrangenatureterrorizedme.WithoutdelayIphonedthebackroomtohavethepersonondutytherebringforththebook.ButIwastrulyalonein that dream library and no one answered what was to my mind now anemergencyappeal.Feelingasenseofurgencyinthefaceofsomeimaginarydeadline,andfilledwithakindofexaltedterror,Isnatcheduptherequestslipandsetouttoretrievethebookmyself.

In the stacks I sawthat the telephone linewasdead, for ithadbeenrippedfrom thewall and lay upon the floor like the frayed end of a disciplinarywhip.Trembling,IconsultedthepieceofpaperIcarriedwithmeforthetitleofthebookand call-number. No longer can I remember that title, but it definitely hadsomethingtodowiththenameofthecity,suburbofasort,whereQuinn’sandmyapartmentwaslocated.Iproceededtowalkdownaseeminglyendlessaisleflankedbyinnumerablesmalleraislesbetweentheloftybookshelves.Indeed,theyweresolofty thatwhen I finally reachedmy destination I had to climb a high ladder toreachthespotwhereIcouldsecurethedesiredbook.Mountingtheladderuntilmyshaking hands gripped the highest rung, I was at eye level with the exact call-number Iwas seeking, or some forgotten dream-glyphswhich I took to be theseletters and digits. And like these symbols, the book I found is now hopelessly

unmemorable,itsshape,color,anddimensionshavingperishedonthejourneybackfromthedream.Imayhaveevendroppedthebook,butthatwasnotimportant.

What was important, however, was the dark little slot created when Iwithdrewthebookfromitsrankontheshelf.Ipeeredin,somehowknowingIwassupposedtodothisaspartof thebook-retrievingritual. Igazeddeeper…andthenextphaseofthedreambegan.

Theslotwasawindow,perhapsmoreofacrackinsomedream-walloraslitinthebillowingmembranethatprotectsoneworldagainsttheintrusionofanother.Beyondwassomethingofalandscape—forlackofamoresuitableterm—whichIviewedthroughanarrowrectangular frame.Butthis landscapehadnoearthandskythathingedtogetherinaneatlineatthehorizon,nofloatingorshiningobjectsabovetoechoandbalancetheirearthboundcountershapesbelow.Thislandscapewasaninfiniteexpanseofdepthanddistance,anever-endingmorassdeprivedofallcoherence,astateofstrangeexistenceratherthanachartablelocus,havingnomoregeographicalextensionthanamirageorarainbow.Therewasdefinitelysomethinginmysight,elementsthatcouldbedistinguishedfromoneanotherbutimpossibletofixinanykindofrelationship.Iexperiencedaprolongedgazeatwhatisusuallyjustadeliriousglimpse,thewayonemightsuddenlyperceivesomesidelongillusionwhichdisappearsattheturnofthehead,leavingnomemoryofwhatthemindhaddeceptivelyseen.

The only way I can describe the visions I witnessed with even faintapproximationisintermsofothersceneswhichmightarousesimilarimpressionsoftortuouschaos:perhapsafestivalofcolorstwistinginblackness,atentacledabyssthat alternately seems to glisten moistly as with some horrendous dew, thensuddenly dulls into an arid glow, like bone-colored stars shining over anextraterrestrial desert. The vista of eerie disorder that I observed was furtherabettedinitsstrangenessbymyownfeelingsaboutit.Theyweremagnifieddream-feelings, those encyclopedic emotions which involve complexities of intuition,sensation, andknowledge impossible to express.Mydream-emotionwas indeedamonstrousencyclopedia,onethatdescribedauniversekeptunderinfinitewrapsof

deception,adimensionofdisguise.Itwasonlyat theendofthedreamthatI sawthecolorsorcoloredshapes,

moltenandmovingshapes.IcannotrememberifIfeltthemtobeanythingspecificorjustabstractentities.TheyseemedtobetheonlythingsactivewithinthemoodyimmensityIstaredoutupon.Theirmotionsomehowwasnotpleasanttowatch—abestiallurchingofeachcolor-mass,aleglesspacinginacagefromwhichtheymightescape at any moment. These phantasms introduced a degree of panic into thedreamsufficienttowakeme.

Oddly enough, though the dream had nothing to dowithmy roommate, Iwokeupcallinghisname repeatedly inmydream-distortedvoice.Buthedidnotanswerthecall,forhewasnothomeatthetime.

Ihavereconstructedmynightmareatthispointfortworeasons.First,toshowthecharacterofmyinnerlifeduringthistime;second,toprovideacontextinwhichIcouldappreciatewhatIfoundthenextdayinQuinn’sroom.

WhenIreturnedfromclassesthatafternoon,Quinnwasnowheretobeseen,andItookthisopportunitytoresearchthenightmaresthathadbeenvisitingourapartment inNortown.ActuallyIdidnothavetopryverydeeply intothenear-fossilized clutter of Quinn’s room. Almost immediately I spied on his desksomethingthatmademyinvestigationeasier,thissomethingbeingaspiralnotebookwithacoverofmockmarble.Switchingonthedesklampinthatdarklycurtainedroom, I looked through the first few pages of the notebook. It seemed to beconcerned with the sect Quinn had become associated with some weeks before,servingasakindofspiritualdiary.TheentrieswereQuinn’smeditationsuponhisinwardevolutionandemployedanesotericterminologywhichmustremainlargelyundocumented, since the notebook is no longer in existence. Its pages, as I recallthem,outlinedQuinn’sprogressalongapathofoffbeatenlightenment,atentativepeeringintowhatmighthavebeenmerelysymbolicrealms.

Quinnseemedtohavebecomeoneofajadedphilosophicalsociety,agroupofarcane deviates. Their raison d’être was a kind of mystical masochism, forcinginitiates toward feats of occult dare-devilry—“glimpsing the infernowith eyes ofice,”totakefromthenotebookaphrasethatwasrepeatedoftenandseemedasortofchantofpower.AsIsuspected,hallucinogenicdrugswereusedbythesect,andthere was no doubt that they believed themselves communing with strangemetaphysical venues. Their chief aim, in truemystical fashion,was to transcendcommon reality in the search for higher states of being, but their stratagemwashighly unorthodox, a strange detour along the usual path toward positiveillumination. Instead, theymaintained a kind of blasphemous fatalism, a doomeddeterminism which brought them face to face with realms of obscure horror.Perhapsitwasthisveryobscuritythatallowedthemtheexcitementoftheircentralpurpose, which seemed to be a precarious flirting with personal apocalypse, thestrivingforhorrificdominionoverhorroritself.

Suchwas the subjectmatterofQuinn’snotebook, all of itquite interesting.But the most intriguing entry was the last, which was brief and which I canrecreate nearly in full. In this entry, like most of the others, Quinn addressedhimself in the second personwith various snatches of advice and admonishment.Much of itwas unintelligible, for it seemed to be obsessed almost entirelywithregions alien to the consciousmind.However,Quinn’swords did have a certaincuriousmeaningwhenIfirstreadthem,andmoresolateron.Thefollowing,then,exemplifiesthemannerofhisnotestohimself:

So faryourprogresshasbeen faultybut inexorable.Lastnightyou sawthe zoneand nowknowwhat it is like—wobbling glitter, a field of venomous colors, theglisteninginnerskinofdeadliestnightshade.Nowthatyouareactuallynearingtheplaneofthezone,awake!Forgetyourdaintyfantasiesand learntomove liketheeyeless beast youmust become. Listen, feel, smell for the zone.Dreamyourwaythroughitsmarvelousperils.Youknowwhatthethingsfromtheremaydotoyouwiththeirdreaming.Beaware.Donotstay inoneplace forvery longthesenext

fewnights.Thiswillbethestrongesttime.Getout(perhapsintothegreatnight-light ofNortown)—wander, tramp, tread, somnambulate if youmust. Stop andwatchbutnotforverylong.Bemindlesslycautious.Catchtheentrancingfragranceoffear—andprevail.

I read this brief passage over and over, and each time its substance seemed tobecome less the fantasies of an overly imaginative sectarian and more a strangereflection on matters by now familiar to me. Thus, I seemed to be serving mypurpose, for the sensitivity of my psyche had allowed a subtle link to Quinn’sspiritualpursuits,evenintheirnuancesofmood.AndjudgingfromthelastentryinQuinn’s notebook, the upcoming days were crucial in some way, the exactsignificance of which may have been entirely psychological. Nevertheless, otherpossibilities and hopes had crossed my mind. As it happened, the question wassettledthefollowingnightoverthecourseofonlyafewhours.Thispost-meridianadventure—somehow inevitably—took place amid the dreamy and debasednightlifeofNortown.

2.

Technically a suburb, at least by any civic definition,Nortownwas not locatedoutsidetheperipheryofthatlargercitywhereQuinnandIattendedtheuniversity,butentirelywithinitsboundaries.Forthenear-indigentstudent,thesoleattractionof this area is the inexpensivehousing it offers in a variety of forms, even if theaccommodationsarenotalwaysthemostappealing.However,inthecaseofQuinnandmyself, themotivesmay have differed, for both of uswere quite capable ofappreciating the hidden properties and possibilities of the little city. Because ofNortown’s peculiar proximity to the downtown area of a large urban center itabsorbed much of the big city’s lurid glamour, only on a smaller scale and in a

concentratedway.Ofcourse, therewereamultitudeof restaurantswithboguslyexoticcuisinesaswellasavarietyofnightspotsofbizarrereputationandnumerousestablishmentsthatexistedinatwilightrealmwithregardtotheirlegality.

But in addition to these second-rate epicurean attractions, Nortown alsooffered less earthly interests, however ludicrous the form theyhappened to take.Theareaseemedakindofspawninggroundformarginalpeopleandmovements.(IbelievethatQuinn’sfellowsectarians—whoevertheymayhavebeen—wereeitherresidents or habitués of the suburb.) Along Nortown’s seven blocks or so ofbustling commerce, onemay see storefront invitations to personalized readings ofthefutureorprivatelecturesonthespiritualfociofthebody.Andifonelooksupwhile walking down certain streets, there is a chance of spying second-floorwindowswithoddsymbolspasteduponthem,crypticbadgeswhosesignificanceisknownonlytotheinitiated.Inawaydifficulttoanalyze,themoodofthesestreetswasreminiscentofthatremarkabledreamIhavepreviouslydescribed—thesenseofdimanddisordered landscapesevokedbyeverysordidstreetcornerof thatcitywithinacity.

NottheleastofNortown’sinvitingqualitiesisthesimplefactthatmanyofitsbusinesses are active every hour of the day and night, whichwas probably onereasonwhyQuinn’sactivitiesgravitatedtothisplace.AndnowIknewofatleastafew particular nights that he planned to spend treading Nortown’s mottledsidewalks.

Quinn left the apartment just before dark.Through thewindow IwatchedhimwalkaroundtothefrontofthebuildingandthenproceedupthestreettowardNortown’s business district. I followedwhen he seemed a safe distance ahead ofme. I supposed that ifmyplan to chartQuinn’smovements for the eveningwasgoingtofail,itwoulddosointhenextfewminutes.Ofcourse,itwasreasonabletocreditQuinnwithanextrasenseortwowhichwouldalerthimtomyscheme.Allthesame,IwasnotwrongtobelieveIwasmerelyconformingtoQuinn’sunspokenwishforaspectatortohisdoom,achroniclerofhisdemonicquest.AndeverythingproceededsmoothlyaswearrivedinthemoreheavilytraffickedareaofNortown

approachingCarton,thesuburb’smainstreet.Upahead, thehighbuildingsof the surroundingmetropolis toweredaround

andaboveNortown’s lowerstructures. Inthedistanceapalesunhadalmostset,highlightingthepeaksofthelargercity’sskyline.ThevalleyedenclaveofNortownnow lay in this skyline’s shadows, adwarfish replicaof theenveloping city.Andthis particular dwarf was of the colorfully clothed type suitable for entertainingjaded royalty. The main street flashed comic colors from an electric spectrum,dizzilyhoppingfoottofootinitsattempttoconquerthenamelessboredomofthecrowds along the sidewalks. The milling throng—unusual for a chilly autumnevening—made iteasier formetoremain inconspicuous, thoughmoredifficult toshadowQuinn.

I almost lost him for a moment when he left the ranks of some sluggishpedestrians anddisappeared into a littledrugstoreon thenorth sideofCarton. Istoppedfartherdowntheblockandwindow-shoppedforsecond-handclothesuntilhe came out onto the street again, which he did a fewminutes later, holding anewspaperinonehandandstuffingaflatpackageofcigarsinsidehisovercoatwiththeother.Isawhimdothisinthelightfloodingoutofthedrugstorewindows,forbynowitwasnightfall.

Quinnwalkedafewmorestepsandthencrossedatmidstreet.Isawthathisdestination was only a restaurant with a semicircle of letters from the Greekalphabetpaintedonthefrontwindows.ThroughthewindowIcouldseehimtakeaseatatthecounterinsideandspreadouthisnewspaper,orderingsomethingfromthewaitresswhostoodwithpad inhand.Forat leasta littlewhilehewouldbeeasytokeeptrackof.NotthatIsimplywantedtoobserveQuinngoinandoutofrestaurantsanddrugstores therestof thenight. Ihadhopedthathismovementswould eventually become more revealing. But for the moment I was gainingpracticeatbeinghisshadow.

I watched Quinn at his dinner from inside a Middle-Eastern import storelocatedacrossthestreetfromtherestaurant.Icouldobservehimeasilythroughthestore’s front displaywindow.Unfortunately Iwas the only patron of thismusty

place, and three times a bony, aged woman asked if she could help me. “Justlooking,”Isaid,takingmyeyesfromthewindowmomentarilyandglancingaroundat a collection of assorted trinkets and ersatz Arabiana. The woman eventuallywent and stood behind a merchandise counter, where she kept her right handtenaciouslyoutofview.ForpossiblynoreasonatallIwasbecomingverynervousamongtheengravedbrassandruggysmellsofthatstore.Idecidedtoreturntothestreet,minglingalongthecrowdedbutstrangelyquietsidewalks.

Afteraboutahalf-hour,atapproximatelyquartertoeight,Quinncameoutoftherestaurant.FromdownthestreetandontheoppositesideIwatchedhimfoldup the newspaper hewas carrying and neatly dispose of it in a nearbymailbox.Then, a recently lit cigar alternating between hand andmouth, he started northagain.IlethimwalkhalfablockorsobeforeIcrossedthestreetandbegantailinghimoncemore.Althoughnothingmanifestlyunusualhadyetoccurred,therenowseemedtobeacertainpromiseofunknownhappenings intheairofthatautumnnight.

Quinn continued on hisway through the dingy neon ofNortown’s streets.Buthenowseemedtohavenospecificdestination.Hisstridewaslesspurposefulthan it had been, and he no longer looked expectantly before him but gawkedaimlesslyaboutthescene,asifthesesurroundingswereunfamiliarorhadalteredinsomeway from the condition of previous visits.The overcoated andwild-hairedfigureofmyroommategavemetheimpressionhewasoverwhelmedbysomethingaroundhim.He lookedup toward the roof-ledges of buildings as though the fullweight of the black autumn sky were about to descend. Absent-mindedly henudgedintoafewpeopleandatsomepointlostholdofhiscigar,scatteringsparksacrossthesidewalk.

Quinn turned at the next corner, where Carton intersected with a minorsidestreet.Therewereonlyafewplacesalivewithactivityinthisarea,whichledintothedarkerresidentialregionsofNortown.Oneoftheseplaceswasabuildingwithastairwayleadingbelowthestreetlevel.FromasafepositionofsurveillanceIsawQuinngodownthisstairwayintowhatIassumedwasabarorcoffeehouseof

somesort.Innocentasitmayhavebeen,myimaginationimpulsivelypopulatedthatcellar with patrons of fascinating diversity and strangeness. Suppressing myfantasies, I confronted the practical decision of whether or not to followQuinninsideand risk shatteringhis illusionof a lonelymysticodyssey. I also speculatedthat perhaps he was meeting others in this place, and possibly I would end upfollowingmultiple cultists, penetrating their esoteric activities, such as theymayhavebeen.Butafter Ihadcautiouslydescendedthestairwayandpeeredthroughthesmearypanesof thewindowthere, I sawQuinnsitting inadistantcorner…andhewasalone.

“Likepeepinginwindows?”askedavoicebehindme.“Windowsaretheeyesofthesoulless,”saidanother.Thistwosomelookedverymuchlikeprofessorsfromtheuniversity,thoughnotthosefamiliartomefromtheanthropologydepartment.Ifollowedthesedistinguishedacademicsintothebar,therebymakingalessobviousentrancethanifIhadgoneinalone.

Theplacewasdarkandcrowdedandmuchlargerthanitlookedfromoutside.IsatatatablebythedoorandatastrategicremovefromQuinn,whowasseatedbehindahalf-wallsomedistanceaway.Thedécoraroundmelookedlikethatofanunfinishedbasementorastorageroom.Therewereagreatnumberofflea-marketantiquitieshangingfromthewalls,anddanglingfromtheceilingwerelongobjectsthat resembled razor strops. After a few moments a rather vacant-looking girlwalkedoverandstoodsilentlynearmytable.Ididnotimmediatelynoticethatshewasjustawaitress,sounconvivialwashergeneralappearanceandmanner.

AtsomepointduringthehourorsothatIwasallowedtosittherenursingmydrink,IdiscoveredthatifIleanedforwardasfaraspossibleinmychair,Icouldcatch a glimpse of Quinn on the other side of the half-wall. This tactic nowrevealedtomeaQuinninanevengreaterstateofagitatedwarinessthanbefore.Ithoughthewouldhavesettleddowntoalanguidseriesofdrinks,buthedidnot.Infact, therewas a cup of coffee, not a glass of spirits, sitting at his elbow.Quinnseemedtobescrutinizingeveryinchoftheroomforsomething.Hisnervousglancesoncenearlyfocusedonmyownface,andfromthenonIbecamemorediscreet.

A little later on, not long beforeQuinn’s andmy exit, a girlwith a guitarwandereduponto aplatformagainst onewall of the room.As shemadeherselfcomfortableinachairontheplatformandtunedherinstrument,someoneswitchedon a single spotlight on the floor. I noticed that attached to the front of thespotlight was a movable disc divided into four sections: red, blue, green, andtransparent.Itwasnowadjustedtoshineonlythroughthetransparentsection.

Theentertainergaveherselfno introductionandstartedsingingasongafterlethargicallystrummingherguitarforamomentorso.Ididnotrecognizethepiece,butIthinkanysongwouldhavesoundedunfamiliarasrenderedbythisperformer,whose voice compared inmy imagination to that of a feeble-minded siren lockedawaysomewhereandwailingpitifullytobesetfree.ThatthesongwasintendedasmournfulIcouldnotdoubt.Itwas,however,averyforeignanddisorientingkindofmournfulness, as if the singerhad eavesdroppedon some exotic and grotesqueritualsforherinspiration.

She finished the song. After receiving applause from only a single personsomewhere in the room, she started into another number which sounded nodifferentfromthefirst.Then,aboutaminuteorsointotheweirdprogressofthissecond song, something happened—amoment of confusion—and seconds later Ifoundmyselfbackonthestreets.

What happenedwas actually nomore than some pettymischief.While thesinger was calling feline-voiced to the lost love of the song’s verses, someonesneaked up near the platform, grabbed the disc attached to the front of thespotlight, and gave it a spin. Awild kaleidoscope ensued. The swarming colorsattackedthesingerandthosepatronsatnearbytables.Thesingingcontinued, itslanguishing tempo off-sync with the speedy reds, blues, and greens. There wassomethingmenacing about the visual disorder of those colors gleefully swimmingaround. And then, for a brief moment, the colorful chaos was eclipsed when asilhouettehurriedlystumbledpast,movingbetweenmytableandthesingerontheplatform. I almostmissed seeingwho itwas, formy eyeswere averted from thegeneralscene.Ilethimmakeitoutthedoor,whichheseemedtohavesometrouble

opening,beforedashingfromtheplacemyself.WhenIemergedfromthestairwayontothesidewalk,IsawQuinnstanding

at the corner on Carton. As he paused to light a cigar, I kept my place in theshadowsuntilheproceededupthestreet.

We walked a few blocks that were profusely decorated with neon signsstreamingacrossthenight.IwasdivertedbythesequentiallylitlettersspellingoutE-S-S-E-N-C-E LOUNGE, LOUNGE, LOUNGE; and I wondered what secretswererevealedtothoseanointedbythepriestessesofMEDEA’SMASSAGE.

Ournextstopwasashortone,thoughitalsothreatenedthepsychicrapportQuinn and I had been so long in establishing.Quinn entered a barwhere a signoutsideadvertisedforpersonswhodesiredworkasprofessionaldancers.Iletafewmomentspassbefore followingQuinn intotheplace.But justasI steppedwithinthetemporarilyblindingdarknessofthebar,someoneshoulderedmetoonesideinhishastetoleave.FortunatelyIwasstandinginacrowdofmenwaitingforseatsinside,andQuinndidnot seemto takenoteofme. Inaddition,his righthand—withcigar—wasvisoringhiseyesorperhapsgivinghisbrowaquickmassage.Inany case, hedidnot stopbut chargedpastme andout thedoor.As I turned tofollow him in his brusque exit, I noticed the scene within the bar, particularlyfocusingona stagewherea single figuregyredabout—clothed in flashingcolors.Andgazingbrieflyonthischaoticimage,Irecalledthatotherflurryingchaosattheunderground club, wondering if Quinn had been disturbed by this secondconfrontation with a many-hued phantasmagoria, this flickering and disorderlyrainbow of dreams. Certainly he seemed to have been repulsed in some way,causinghisfuriousexit.IexitedmorecalmlyandresumedmychartingsofQuinn’snocturnalvoyage.

Henextvisited anumberofplaces intowhich, forone reasonor another, Iwaswary to follow. Included among these stopswas a bookstore (not an occultone), a record shopwithanoutdoor speaker thatblaredmadness into the street,and a lively amusement arcade, where Quinn remained for only the briefestmoment. Between each of these diversions Quinn appeared to be getting

progressively more, I cannot say frantic, but surely…watchful. His once steadystridewas now interrupted by half-halts to glance into storewindows, frequenthesitations that betrayed a multitude of indecisive thoughts and impulses, and afalteringuncertainty ingeneral.Hiswholemannerofmovementhadchanged, itsaspects of rhythm, pace, and gesture adding up to a character-image radicallyalteredfromhisformerself.AttimesIcouldevenhavedoubtedthatthiswasJackQuinnifithadnotbeenforhisunmistakableappearance.

Perhaps, I thought, he had become subliminally aware of someone beingalwaysathisback,andthat,atthispointinhisplummettoanisolatedhell,henolonger required a companion or could not tolerate a voyeur of his destiny. ButultimatelyIhadtoconcludethatthecauseofQuinn’sdisquietwassomethingotherthan a pair of footsteps trailing behind him. There was something else that heseemedtobeseeking,searchingoutcluesinthebrickandneonlandscape,possiblyinsomesignalconditionorcircumstancefromwhichhecouldderiveguidanceforhismovementsthatfrigidandfragrantOctobernight.ButIdonotthinkhefound,or could properly read, whatever sign it was he sought. Otherwise theconsequencesmighthavebeendifferent.

ThereasonforQuinn’slackofalertnesshadmuchtodowithhispenultimatestopthatevening.Thetimewasclosetomidnight.WehadworkedourwaydownCarton to the last block of Nortown’s commercial area. Here, also, were thenorthernlimitsofthesuburb,beyondwhichlayastretchofcondemnedbuildingsbelongingtothesurroundingcity.Thispartofthesuburbwassimilarlyblightedinways bothphysical and atmospheric.On either side of the street stood a rowofattached buildings whose height sometimes varied dramatically. Many of thebusinessesonthisblockwerenotequippedwithoutsidelightsorfailedtoemploytheonestheyhad.Butthelackofoutwardilluminationseldomsignifiedthattheseplaceswerenotopenforbusiness,atleastjudgingbythecomingsandgoingsonthesidewalks outside the darkened shops, bars, small theaters, and otherestablishments.Casual pedestrian traffic at this end of the suburb had seeminglydiminishedtocertaindeterminedindividualsofspecifictasteanddestination.Street

traffictoowasreduced,andtherewassomethingaboutthosefewcarsleftparkedatthecurbsthatgavethemalookofabandonment,ifnotcompleteimmobility.

Ofcourse,Iamsurethosecars,ormostofthem,werecapableofmotion,anditwasonlythemostpatheticoffallaciesthatcausedonetoviewthemassentientthingssomehowdebilitatedbytheirbroken-downsurroundings.ButIthinkImayhave been dreaming onmy feet for a few seconds: sounds and images seemed tocome to me from places outside the immediate environment. I stared at an oldbuilding across the street—a bar, perhaps, or a nameless club of some exclusivemembership—andforamomentIreceivedtheimpressionthatitwassendingoutstrangenoises,notfromwithinitswallsbutfromafarmoredistantsource,asifitwere transmitting from remotedimensions.And thesenoiseshadavisible aspecttoo,akindofvibration inthenightair, likestaticthatonecouldseesparkling inthe darkness. But all thewhile therewas just an old building and nothingmorethan that. I stared a little longer and the noises faded into confused echoes, thesparkling became dull and disappeared, the connection lost, and the place fullyresumeditsdecrepitreality.

The building lookedmuch too intimate in size to afford concealment, and Iperceivedacertainprivacyinitsappearancethatmademefeelanewcomerwouldhavebeenawkwardlynoticeable.Quinn,however,hadunhesitantlygoneinside.Isuppose itwouldhave beenhelpful to observehim in there, to seewhat sort offamiliarityhehadwiththisestablishmentanditspatrons.ButallIknowisthatheremainedinthereforoveranhour.DuringpartofthattimeIwaitedatacounterstoolinadinerdownthestreet.

WhenQuinn finally came out hewas observably drunk.This surprisedme,because I had assumed that he intended to maintain the utmost control of hisfaculties that evening. The coffee I saw him drinking at that underground clubseemedtosupportthisassumption.ButsomehowQuinn’sintentionstoholdontohissobriety,ifhehadsuchintentionstobeginwith,hadbeenrevisedorforgotten.

Ihadpositionedmyselffartherdownthestreetbythetimehereappeared,butthere was much less need for caution now. It was ridiculously easy to remain

unnoticedbehindaQuinnwhocouldbarelyseethepavementhewalkedupon.Apolice car with flashing lights passed us on Carton, and Quinn exhibited noawarenessofit.Hehaltedonthesidewalk,butonlytolightanothercigar.Andheseemed to have a difficult time performing this task in a wind that turned hisunbuttoned overcoat into a wild-winged cape flapping behind him. It was thiswind, asmuchasQuinnhimself, that led theway toour final stopwherea fewlightsrelievedthedarknessontheveryedgeofNortown.

The lightswere those of a theatermarquee.And itwas also here thatwecaught up with the revolving beacons of the patrol car. Behind it was anothervehicle,a large luxuryaffair thathadadeepgash in its shinyside.Not farawayalong the curbwas aNo Parking sign thatwas creased into an L shape.A tallpolicemanwas inspecting thedamaged city property,while the owner of the carthat had apparently done the deedwas standing by. Quinn gave only a passingglance at this tableau as he proceeded into the theater. A few moments later Ifollowed him, but not before hearing the owner of that disfigured car tell thepatrolmanthatsomethingbrightlycoloredhadsuddenlyappearedinhisheadlights,causinghimtoswerve.Andwhateveritwashadsubsequentlyvanished.

Steppingintothelobbyofthetheater,Inotedthatitmusthavebeenaplaceofbaroqueeleganceinformerdays,thoughnowtheoutlinesofthescrolledmoldingabovewereblurredbygrayishsedimentandtheenormouschandelierwasmissingsome of its parts and all of its glitter. The glass counter onmy right,which nodoubtwasoncefilledwithboxesofcandyandsuch,hadbeenconverted,probablylongago,intoamerchandisestanddisplayingpornographicmagazines.

Iwalkedthroughoneofalonglineofdoorsandstoodaroundforawhileinthehallwaybehindtheauditorium.Hereagroupofmenweretalkingandsmoking,droppingtheircigarettesontothefloorandsteppingthemout.Theirvoicesalmostdrowned out the soundtrack of the film that was being shown, the soundemanatingfromtheaisleentrancesandhummingunintelligiblyinthebackwalls.Ilooked into the film-lit auditoriumand sawonly a fewmoviegoers scatteredhereand there in theworn seats of the theater,mostly sitting by themselves. By the

lightof the film I locatedQuinnwithin the sparseaudience.Hewas sittingveryclosetothescreeninafront-rowseatnexttosomecurtainsandanexitsign.

Heseemedtobedozinginhisseatratherthanwatchingthefilm,andIfounditasimplemattertopositionmyselfa fewrowsbehindhim.BythattimeQuinnappeared to have lostwhatwas left of his earlier resolve and intensity, and themomentumofthatnighthadallbutrunout.InthedarknessofthetheaterIbegantonodandthenfellasleep,muchasitseemedQuinnhadalreadydone.

Ididnotsleepfor long,nomorethanafewminutes.ButduringthattimeIdreamed.However,therewasnonightmarishsceneryinthisdream,nothreateningscenarios.Onlydarkness…darknessandavoice.ThevoicewasthatofQuinn.Hewascallingouttomefromagreatdistance,adistancethatdidnotseemamatterofphysical space but one of immeasurable and alien dimensions. His words weredistorted, as if passing through somemedium thatwasmisshaping them, turninghumansoundsintoabeastlikerasping—thehalf-chokingandhalf-shriekingvoiceofsomethingintheprocessofbeingslowlyandmethodicallywounded.Firsthecalledmynameseveraltimesinthewildmodulationsofacoarsescream.Thenhesaid,aswell as I can remember: “Stoppedwatching for them… fell into their zone…where are you… help us… they’re dreaming, too… they’re dreaming… andshapingthingswiththeirdreams.”

IawokeandthefirstthingIsawwaswhatseemedagreatshapelessmassofcolors,whichwasonlythegiantimagesofthefilm.Myeyesfocused,andIlookeddowntherowstowardQuinn.Heseemedtobeslumpedover,hunchingdown,thetopofhisheadmuchtoonearhisshoulders.Amoundofmovementstruggledontheother sideofhis seat, emerging sideways into theaisle. ItwasQuinn,buthewas now faintly luminous and diminished in size. The bottom of his overcoatdraggedalongthefloor,itssleeveshanginglooseandhandless,itscollarcavingin.Thethingfoughttotakeeachawkwardstep,asifitdidnothavefullcontrolofitsmotion,likeamarionettejerkingthiswayandthatwayasitlaboredforth.Itsglowseemed to be gaining in radiance now, a pulsing opalescent aura that crawled orflowedallaroundthelumberingdwarf.

Imight still be in a dream, I remindedmyself.Or thismight be a distortedafter-vision, a delirious blendof imagesderived fromnightmare, imagination, andthatenormousstainofcolorsatthefrontofthedarkauditoriuminwhichIhadjustawakened. I tried to collect myself, to focus on the thing thatwas disappearingbehindthethickcurtainbeneaththelightedexitsign.

Ifollowed,passingthroughtheopeninginthefrayed,velvetycurtain.Beyonditwasacementstairwayleadinguptoametaldoorthatwasnowswingingclosed.HalfwayupthestairsIsawafamiliarshoewhichmusthavebeenlostinQuinn’sfranticyetretardedhaste.Wherewasherunningandfromwhat?Theseweremyonlythoughtsnow,withoutconsiderationofthepurestrangenessofthesituation.Ihad abandoned all connections to any guiding set of norms by which to judgerealityorunreality.However,allthatwasneededtoshatterthisacceptancewaitedoutside—somethingoftotalunacceptabilityatoparicketyscaffoldofestrangement.AfterIsteppedoutthedooratthetopofthestairs,Idiscoveredthatthepreviouseventsofthatnighthadonlyservedasaspringboardintootherrealms,apointofdeparturefromaworldnowdiminishingwithafuriousvelocitybehindme.

The area outside the theater was unlit but nonetheless was not dark.Somethingwas shining ina longnarrowpassagewaybetween the theaterandanadjacent building.ThiswaswhereQuinn had gone. Illuminationwas there, andsounds.

From around the corner’s edge a grotesque lightwas trickling out, the firstintimations of an ominous sunrise over a dark horizon. I dimly recognized thiswavering light, thoughnot frommywakingmemory. It grewmore intense,nowpouringout inweird streams frombeyond the solidmarginof thebuilding.Andthemoreintenseitgrew,themoreclearlyIcouldhearthescreamingvoicethathadcalled out to me in a dream. I shouted his name, but the swelling, chromaticbrilliancewasafieldoffearwhichkeptmefrommakinganymoveinitsdirection.What repelled me appeared as a rainbow in which all natural color had beenmutatedintoapainfullylushiridescencebysomeprismfantasticallycorruptedinitsform.Itwasanaurorapaintingthedarknesswithashimmeringblazethatdidnot

belong to this world. And, in actuality, it was nothing like these figurativeeffusions, which are merely a feeble means of partially fixing a realityincommunicabletothosenot initiatedto it,anecessaryresortingtothemakeshiftgibberish of themystic isolated by his experience and leftwithout a language todescribeit.

The entire episode was temporally rather brief, though its phantasmagoricquality made it seem of indefinite duration—the blink of an eye or an eon.Suddenly the brightness ceased flowing out towardme, as if some strange spigothadbeenabruptlyturnedoffsomewhere.Thescreaminghadalsostopped.Withallcaution, I stepped into thepassageway Ihad seenQuinn enter.Butnothingwasthere—nothingtorelievemysenseofconfusionastowhatexactlyhadhappened.(Though not a dilettante of the unreal, I have had my moments of dazedastonishment.)Butperhaps therewasone thing.Onthegroundwasaburnt-outpatchofearth,ashapelessandbarespotthatwasdeprivedoftheweedsandlitterthat covered the surroundingarea.Possibly itwasonlyaplace fromwhich someobjecthadrecentlybeenremoved,spiritedoff,leavingtheearthbeneathitvacantanddead.Foramoment,whenIfirstlookedatthespot,itseemedtotwinklewitha faint luminosity. Possibly I only imagined its outline as being that of a humansilhouette, though one contorted in such a way that it might also have beenmistakenforotherthings,othershapes.Inanycase,whateverhadbeentherewasnowgone.

Andaround this barren little swatchof groundwasonly trash:newspapersmutilatedbytimeandtheelements;brownbagsreducedbydecaytotheirprimalpulp;thousandsofcigarettebutts;andoneitemofdebristhatwasalmostnewandhadyettohaveanytransformationsworkeduponit.Itwasathinbook-likebox.Ipickeditup.Therewerestilltwofreshcigarsinit.

3.

Quinnneverreturnedtotheapartmentweshared.AfterafewdaysIreportedhimasmissingtotheNortownpolice.BeforedoingthisIdestroyedthenotebookinhisroom, for in a fit of paranoia I thought thepolicewould find it in the course oftheir investigations and then ask some rather uncomfortable questions. I did notwant to explain to them things that they simply would not believe, especiallyactivities indulged in that final night. This would only have erroneously castsuspicionuponmyself.Fortunately,theNortownauthoritiesarenotoriouslylaxintheirofficialfunctions.Asitturnedout,theyaskedveryfewquestionsandnevercametotheapartment.

AfterQuinn’sdisappearanceIimmediatelybeganlookingforanotherplaceto

live.Andalthoughmyroommatewasgone, strangedreamscontinuedduringmylastdaysattheoldresidence.Butthesedreamsweredifferentinsomeparticulars.Thegeneralbackdropwasmuchthesamenightmareexpanse,butnowIvieweditfromadistanceoutsidethedream.Itwasactuallymore likewatchingafilmthandreaming,andinawaytheydidnotseemtobemyowndreamsatall.Iconsideredthese to be Quinn’s leftover visions still haunting the apartment, for he alwaysplayedtheircentralrole.PerhapsitwasinthesedreamsthatIcontinuedtofollowQuinnbeyondthepointatwhichI losthim.Forat thatpoint I imaginedhimasalreadystartingtochange,andinmylastdreamshechangedfurther.

He no longer bore any resemblance to my former roommate, though withdreamlike omniscience I knew itwas he.His shape kept changing, or ratherwasdeliberatelybeingchangedbythosekaleidoscopicbeasts.Playingoutascenefromsome Boschian hell, the tormenting demons encircled their victim and weredreaming him. They carried him through a hideous series of transfigurations,maliciously altering the screaming mass of a damned soul. They were dreamingthings out of him and dreaming things into him. Finally, the purpose of their

transformations became apparent. They were torturing their victim through anumber of stages which would ultimately result in his becoming one of them,fulfillinghismostfearfulandobsessivevision.Inolongerrecognizedhimbutsawthat therewasnowonemoreglitteringbeast that took itsplacewith theothersandfrolickedamongthem.

ThiswasthelastdreamIhadbeforeleavingtheapartment.Therehavebeennoothers since, at leastnone thathave troubledmyown sleep. I cannot say thesameforthatofmynewroommate,whoragesinhisslumbernightafternightintheshabby,andquitereasonablypriced,littleplacewherewereside.Onceortwicehehasattemptedtocommunicatetomehisstrangevisionsandthecompanyintowhichtheyhaveledhim.ButIaffectonlytheslightestinterestinhisadventures.Forasastudentofanthropology,oneofthefewofmykind,Imustkeepacertaindistancefrommysubjects.Theyareofararetype,andoutrightintimacytendstoimpact their behavior in ways that could spoil my study of them. In any case,companionshipisnotwhattheseadventurersinanalternativeexistenceseek.Whattheydesire, likeJackQuinn,arewitnessestotheirdownfallastheyplummetintoanabyssofnightmares.Whattheywantarechroniclersoftheirexplorations inahell of their own choosing. And in these roles I am more than willing toaccommodatethem,fortheirdesiresandminearecomplementary.Nevertheless,Isometimesfeelatingeofguiltonmyside.Intruth,IamaparasitewholivesoffamaladythatafflictsthemwhileIremainimmune.AndthepartIplayisthatofavoyeur.Forit iswithinmypowertosavethem.IfonlyIweremovedtodoso,Icouldhold outmyhand to them as theyhover over the pit. I can onlywonder,then,whatisthesicknessfromwhichIsufferthat,likesomedepraveddeity,Ielecttoletthemfall.

TheMysticsofMuelenburg

Ifthingsarenotwhattheyseem—andweareforeverremindedthatthisisthecase—then itmust also be observed that enough of us ignore this truth to keep theworld from collapsing. Though never exact, always shifting somewhat, theproportioniscrucial.Foracertainnumberofmindsarefatedtodepartforrealmsofdelusion,as if inaccordancewithsomehideoustimetable,andmanywillneverbereturningtous.Evenamongthosewhoremain,howdifficultitcanbetoholdthe focus sharp, to keep the picture of the world from fading, from blurring inselectedzonesand,onoccasion, fromsustainingepicdeformationsover theentirevisiblescene.

I once knew a man who claimed that, overnight, all the solid shapes ofexistence had been replaced by cheap substitutes: trees made of poster board,housesbuiltofcoloredfoam,wholelandscapescomposedofhair-clippings.Hisownflesh,hesaid,wasnowjustsomuchputty.Needlesstoadd,thisacquaintancehaddesertedthecauseofappearancesandcouldno longerbedependedontosticktothecommonstory.Alonehehadwandered intoataleofanothersortaltogether;forhim,allthingsnowparticipatedinthisnightmareofnonsense.Butalthoughhisrevelationsconflictedwiththelesserformsoftruth,nonethelesshedidliveinthelightofagreatertruth:thatall isunreal.Withinhimthisknowledgewasvividlypresentdowntohisverybones,whichhadbeennewlysimulatedbyacompoundofmudanddustandashes.

Inmyowncase,Imustconfessthatthemythofanaturaluniverse—thatis,onethatadherestocertaincontinuitieswhetherwewishthemornot—waslosingitsgriponmeandgraduallybeingsupplantedbyahallucinatoryviewofcreation.Forms,havingnothingtoofferexceptameresuggestionoffirmness,declinedinimportance;fantasy,thatmistydomainofpuremeaning,gainedinpowerandinfluence.Thiswasinthedayswhen esotericwisdom seemed to count for something inmymind, and Iwouldwillinglyhavesacrificedagreatdeal in itspursuit.Hence,myinterest inthemanwhocalledhimselfKlausKlingman;hence,too,thatbriefyetprofitableassociationbetweenus,whichcameaboutthroughchannelstootwistedtorecall.

Withoutadoubt,Klingmanwasoneof the illuminatiandprovedthismanytimesoverinvariouspsychicexperiments,particularlythoseoftheseancetype.Inthisregard, IneedonlymentionthemanwhowasseverallyknownasNemotheNecromancer, Marlowe the Magus, and Master Marinetti, each of whom wasnoneotherthanKlausKlingmanhimself.ButKlingman’shighestachievementwasnotamatterofpublicspectacleandconsistedentirelyofthisprivatetriumphthathe had attained, by laborious effort, an unwavering acceptance of the spectralnatureofthings,whichtohimwereneitherwhattheyseemedtobenorweretheyquiteanythingatall.

Klingman lived in the enormous upper story of awarehouse that had beenpartofhisfamily’slegacytohim,andthereIoftenfoundhimwanderingamidstafew pieces of furniture and the cavernous wasteland of dim and empty storagespace.Collapsingintoanancientarmchair,reposingfarbeneathcrumblingrafters,hewouldgazebeyond thephysicalbodyofhisvisitor,his eyes surveying remoteworldsandhisfacialexpressionbadlydisorganizedbydreamsandlargequantitiesof alcohol. “Fluidity, always fluidity,”he shouted out, his voice carrying throughtheexpansivehazearoundus,whichmuteddaylightintodusk.Theembodimentofhismystic precepts, he appeared at any givenmoment to be on the verge of anamazingdisintegration,hisparticularcomplexofatomsreadytogoshootingoffintothegreatvoidlikeaburstoffireworks.

Wediscussedthedangers—formeandfortheworld—ofadoptingavisionaryprogram of existence. “The chemistry of things is so delicate,” hewarned. “Andthis word chemistry. What does it mean but a mingling, a mixing, a gushingtogether?Thesearethingsthatpeoplefear.”

Indeed, I had already suspected thehazards ofKlingman’s company, and, asthe sunwas settingover the citybeyond thegreatwindowsof thewarehouse, Ibecameafraid.Withanuncannyperceptionofmyfeelings,Klingmanpointedatmeandbellowed:“Theworst fearof therace—yes, theworldsuddenlytransformedintoa senselessnightmare,horribledissolutionof things.Nothingcompares, evenoblivion is a sweet dream. You understand why, of course. Why this peculiar

threat. These brooding psyches, all the busy minds everywhere. I hear thembuzzinglikefliesintheblackness.Iseethemasglowwormsflittingintheblindingsun.They are struggling, straining every second to keep the sky above them, tokeep the sun in the sky, to keep thedead in the earth—tokeep all things, so tospeak,where theybelong.Whatanundertaking!Whatacrushing task! Is itanywonderthattheyarealltemptedbyauniversalvice,thatinsomedarkstreetofthemindasinglevoicewhisperstooneandall,softlyhissing,andsays:‘Laydownyourburden.’Then thoughtsbegin todrift, amysticalmagnetismpulls them thiswayandthat,facesstarttochange,shadowsspeak.Andsoonerorlatertheskycomesdown, melting like wax. But as you know, everything has not yet been lost:absoluteterrorhasproveditssecurityagainstthisfate.Isitanywonderthatthesebeingscarryonthestruggleatwhatevercost?”

“Andyou?”Iasked.“I?”“Yes,don’tyoushouldertheuniverseinyourownway?”“Notatall,”hereplied,smilingandsittingupinhischairasonathrone.“I

amaluckyone,parasiteofchaos,maggotofvice.WhereIliveisallnightmare,thusacertainnonchalance.Iamaccustomedtodriftinginthedeliriumofhistory.AndbyhistoryIincludeevents,andevenwholeeras,thathavenevergoneonrecord.Speakingwiththedeadcanbesoinstructive.Theyrememberwhatthelivinghaveforgotten, or would not know if they could. The true frailty of things. Whathappened in the old town of Muelenburg, for example. Now there was anopportunity,amomentofdistractioninwhichsomuchwasnearlylostforever,somany lost in that medieval gloom, catastrophe of dreams. How their mindswandered in the shadows even as their bodieswere seemingly bound to narrowrutted streets and apparently safeguarded by the spired cathedral which waserectedbetween1365and1399.Arareandfortuitousjuncturewhentheburdenofthe heavenswas heaviest—somuch to keep in its place—and the psyche so ill-developed, so easily taxed and tempted away from its labors. But they knewnothing about that, and never could. They only knew the prospect of absolute

terror.”Klingman smiled, thenbegan giggling, hismindobviously turning inward to

converse with itself. Hoping to draw his conversation outward, I said. “Mr.Klingman, youwere speaking aboutMuelenburg. You said something about thecathedral.”

“I see thecathedral, thecolossalvaultabove, thecentralaisle stretchingoutbeforeus.Thewoodcarvingsleerdownfromdarkcorners,animalsandfreaks,meninthemouthsofdemons.Areyoutakingnotesagain?Fine,thentakenotes.Whoknowswhatyouwill rememberofall this?Or ifmemorywillhelpyouatall? Inanycasewearealreadythere,sittingamongthesmotheredsoundsofthecathedral.Beyondthejeweledwindowsisthetownintwilight.”

Twilight, as Klingman explained, had come upon Muelenburg somewhatprematurely on a certaindaydeep into the autumn season.Early that afternoon,clouds had spread themselves evenly above the region surrounding the town,withholdingheaven’slightandgivingadullappearancetothelandscapeofforests,thatched farmhouses,andwindmills standingstillagainst thehorizon.Within thehighstonewallsofMuelenburgitself,nooneseemedparticularlytroubledthatthenarrow streets—normally so clutteredwith thepointed shadowsofpeaked roofsandjuttinggablesatthistimeofday—werestillimmersedinalukewarmdimnesswhichturnedmerchants’brightlycoloredsignsintofadedartifactsofadeadtownandwhichmadefaceslookasiftheywerefashionedofpaleclay.Andinthecentralsquare—where the shadow from the clock-tower of the town hall at timesoverlappedthosecastbythetwinspiresofthecathedralontheonehand,ortheones fromhigh castle turrets looming at the border of the town on the other—therewasonlygraynessundisturbed.

Where were the minds of the townspeople? How had they ceased payinghomagetotheancientorderofthings?Andwhenhadtheseveringtakenplacethatsettheirworldadriftonstrangewaters?

Forsometimetheyremainedinnocentofthedisaster,goingabouttheirways

as the ashen twilight lingered far too long, as it encroachedupon thehours thatbelongedtoeveningandsuspendedthetownbetweendayandnight.Everywherewindowsbegan toglowwith theyellow lightof lamps, creating the illusion thatdarknesswas imminent.Anymoment, it seemed, thenatural cyclewould relievethe town of the prolonged dusk it had suffered that autumn day. How well-receivedtheblacknesswouldhavebeenbythosewhowaitedsilentlyinsumptuouschambers or humble rooms, for no one could bear the sight of Muelenburg’stwisting streets in that eerie, overstaying twilight. Even the night watchmanshirked his nocturnal routine.Andwhen the bells of the abbey sounded for themonks’midnightprayers,eachtoll spread likeanalarmthroughoutthetownstillheldinthestrangeluminousnessofthegloaming.

Exhausted by fear, many shuttered theirwindows, extinguished lamps, andretiredtotheirbeds,hopingthatallwouldbemaderightintheinterval.Otherssatupwithacandle,enjoyingthelostluxuryofshadows.Afew,beingitinerantswhowerenotfixedtothelifeofthetown,brokethroughtheunwatchedgateandtooktotheroads,allthewhilegazingatthepaleskyandwonderingwheretheywouldgo.

Whether they kept the hours in their dreams or in sleepless vigils, all ofMuelenburg’scitizensweredisturbedbysomethinginthespacesaroundthem,asifsomestrangenesshadseeped intotheatmosphereoftheirtown,theirhomes,andperhapstheirsouls.Theairseemedheaviersomehow,resistingthemslightly,andalsoseemedtobeflowingwiththingsthatcouldnotbeperceivedexceptasswift,shadowlike movement escaping all sensible recognition, transparent flight whichbarelycaressedone’svision.

Whentheclockhighinthetowerofthetownhallprovedthatanightfulofhourshadpassed,someopenedtheirshutters,evenventuredintothestreets.Butthe sky still hovered over them like an infinite vault of glowing dust.Here andthere throughout the town the people began to gather in whispering groups.Appeals were soonmade at the castle and the cathedral, and speculations wereoffered to calm the crowd. Therewas a struggle in heaven, some had reasoned,

which had influenced the gross reality of the visible world. Others proposed adeception by demons or an ingenious punishment from on high.Certain personsmet secretly in well-hidden chambers and spoke in stricken voices of old deitiesformerlydrivenfromtheearthwhowerenowmonstrouslygropingtheirwayback.Andallof theseexplicationsof themysterywere true in theirownway, thoughnonecouldabatethedreadwhichhadsettleduponthetownofMuelenburg.

Submerged in unvarying grayness, distracted and confused by phantasmalintrusionsaboutthem,thepeopleofthetownfelttheirworlddissolving.Eventheclock in the town hall tower failed to keep their moments from wanderingstrangely.Withinsuchdisorderwerebredcuriousthoughtsandactions.Thus, inthegardenoftheabbeyanancienttreewasshunnedandrumorsspreadconcerningsome change in its twisted silhouette, something flaccid and ropelike about itsbranches,untilfinallythemonksdouseditwithoilandsetitaflame,theircircleofsquinting faces bathing in the glare. Likewise, a fountain standing in one of thecastle’s most secluded courtyards became notoriouswhen its waters appeared tosuggestfabulousdepthsfarbeyondthenaturaldimensionsofitsshell-shapedbasin.Thecathedral itselfhaddeteriorated intoahollowsanctuarywhereprayersweremockedbyqueermovementsamongthecarvedfiguresincornicesandbyshadowsstreaminghorriblyinthetwitchinglightofathousandcandles.

Throughoutthetown,allplacesandthingsboreevidencetostrikingrevisionsinthebaserealmofmatter:preciselysculpturedstonebegantoloosenandlump,anabandonedcartmeldedwiththesuckingmudofthestreet,andobjectsindesolaterooms lost themselves in the surfaces theypressedupon,makingmetal tongsmixwithbrickhearth,prismaticjewelswithlavishvelvet,acorpsewiththewoodofitscoffin. At last the faces of Muelenburg became subject to changing expressionswhichatfirstwerequitesubtle,thoughlaterthesedivergencesweresoexaggeratedthat it was no longer possible to recapture original forms. It followed that thetownspeoplecouldnomorerecognizethemselvesthantheycouldoneanother.Allwere carried off in the great torrent of their dreams, all spinning in that grayishwhirlpool of indefinite twilight, all churning and in the end merging into utter

blackness.It was within this blackness that the souls of Muelenburg struggled and

laboredandultimatelyawoke.Thestarsandhighmoonnowlitupthenight,anditseemedthattheirtownhadbeenreturnedtothem.Andsoterriblehadbeentheirrecent ordeal that of its beginning, its progress, and its termination, they couldremember…nothing.

“Nothing?”Iechoed.“Of course,” Klingman answered. “All of those terrible memorieswere left

behindintheblackness.Howcouldtheybeartobringthemback?”“Butyourstory,”Iprotested.“ThesenotesI’vetakentonight.”“What did I tell you? Privileged information, confidences spoken off the

historical record.You know that sooner or later each of the soulswho occupiedMuelenburg recollected the episode in detail. Itwas all waiting for them in theplacewheretheyhadleftit—theblacknesswhichisthedomainofdeath.”

I remembered the necromantic learning thatKlingmanhadprofessed and towhich I gave no small credence. But this was too much. “Then nothing can beverified,nothingyou canproduce tobackupyour story. I thoughtyoumight atleastconjureaspiritortwo.You’veneverdisappointedmebefore.”

“Norwill I disappoint you tonight. Remember, I am onewith the dead ofMuelenburg . . . and with all who have known the great dream in all its trueliquescence.TheyhavespokentomeasIamspeakingtoyou.Manyreminiscencesimpartedbythoseolddreamers,manydrunkendialoguesIhaveheldwiththem.”

“Like thedrunkennessof thisdialogue tonight,” I said,openlydisdaininghisnarrative.

“Perhaps,onlymuchmorevivid,morereal.ButtheyarnwhichyousupposeIhavemerelyspunhasserveditspurpose.Tocureyouofdoubt,youfirsthadtobemadeadoubter.Untilnow,pardonmysayingso,youhaveshownnotalentinthatdirection.Youbelievedeverywildthingthatcamealong,providedithadtheleastevidencewhatever.Unparalleledcredulity.Buttonightyouhavedoubtedandthusyouarereadytobecuredofthisdoubt.Anddidn’tImentiontimeandagainthe

dangers?Unfortunately,youcannotcountyourselfamongthose forgetful soulsofMuelenburg.You evenhaveyourmnemonicnotes, as if anyonewill credit themwhenthisnight isover.This ismygift toyou.Thiswillbeyourenlightenment.Forthetimeisrightagainforthereturnoffluidity,andfortheworld’sgriptogoslack.And later somuchwillhave tobewashedaway,assuminga renascenceofthings.Fluidity,alwaysfluidity.”

WhenIlefthiscompanythatnight,abandoningthedeadandshapelesshoursIhadspentinthatwarehouse,Klingmanwaslaughinglikeamadman.Irememberhim slouched in that threadbare throne, his face flushed and twisted, hismouthwailingat somehilariousarcanaknownonlytohimself.Toallappearances, someultimatephaseofdissipationhadseizedhissoul.

Nevertheless, that I had underrated or misunderstood the power of KlausKlingmanwassoondemonstratedtome,thoughIwishithadnotbeen.Butnooneelseremembersthattimewhenthenightwouldnotleaveandnodawnappearedtobeforthcoming.Duringtheearlypartofthecrisisthereweresensible,ratherthanapocalyptic,explanationsprofferedeverywhere:blackout,bizarremeteorologicalphenomena,aneclipseofsorts.Later, thesemythsbecameuselessandultimatelyunnecessary.Aswe had done before,we once again returned to this flimsyworld—thisworld Imustnowviewasamerevaporofspectralmanifestations,appearancescastoutofemptiness, an ornamented void. As Klingman had promised, my enlightenmentwouldbealonelyone.

For no one else recalls the hysteria that prevailed when the stars and themoondimmedintoblackness.Norcantheysummontheleastmemoryofwhentheartificial illumination of this earth turnedweak and lurid, and all the shapesweonceknewcontortedintonightmaresandnonsense.Andfinallyhowtheblacknessgrew viscous, enveloping what light remained and drawing us into itself. Howmanysuchhorrorsawaitinthatblacknesstoberestoredtothelegionsofthedead.For no one else living rememberswhen everything began to change, no one elsewiththeexceptionofKlausKlingmanandmyself.

In the red dawn following that gruesomely protracted night, Iwent to thewarehouse.Unfortunatelytheplacewasuntenanted,savebyitssparefurnishingsand a few empty bottles. Klingman had disappeared, perhaps into that sameblacknessforwhichheseemedtohaveanincrediblenostalgia.I,ofcourse,makenoappealsforbelief.Therecanbenobeliefwherethereisnodoubt.Thisisfarfromsecretknowledge,asifsuchknowledgecouldchangeanything.Thisisonlyhowitseems,andseemingiseverything.

IntheShadowofAnotherWorld

Manytimesinmylife,andinmanydifferentplaces,Ihavefoundmyselfwalkingattwilightdownstreetslinedwithgentlystirringtreesandoldsilenthouses.Onsuchlulling occasions things seem firmly anchored, quietly settled and exceedinglypresent to thenatural eye: overdistant rooftops the sun abandons the scene andcastsitslastlightuponwindows,wateredlawns,theedgesofleaves.Inthisdrowsysettingboth great things and small achieve an intricateunion, apparently leavingnottheleastspaceforanythingelsetointrudeupontheirvisibledomain.Butotherrealms are always capable of making their presence felt, hovering unseen likestrange citiesdisguised as cloudsorhidden like aworldofpale specterswithin afog.Oneisbesiegedbyordersofentitythatrefusetoarticulatetheirexactnatureorpropermilieu.Andsoonthosewell-alignedstreetsrevealthattheyare, infact,situatedamongbizarre landscapeswhere simple trees andhouses aremarvelouslyobscured,where everything is settledwithin thedepths of a vast, echoing abyss.Even the infinite sky itself, across which the sun spreads its expansive light, ismerelyablurrylittlewindowwithacrackinit—ajaggedfracturebeyondwhichonemaysee,at twilight,whatpervadesavacant street linedwithgently stirringtreesandoldsilenthouses.

OnoneparticularoccasionIfollowedatree-linedstreetpastallthehousesandcontinueduntilitbroughtmetoasinglehouseashortdistancefromtown.Astheroadbeforemenarrowedintoabristlingpath,andthepathascendedinaswervingcourseup the sideofahump in theotherwiseeven landscape, I stoodbeforemyday’sdestination.

Likeotherhousesofitskind(Ihaveseensomanyofthemoutlinedagainstapaleskyatdusk),thisonepossessedtheaspectofamirage,achimericalqualitythatled one to doubt its existence. Despite its dark and angular mass, its peaks andporchesandwornwoodensteps,therewassomethingimproperlytenuousaboutitssubstance, as if it had been constructed of illicit materials—dreams and vaporposingassolidmatter.Andthiswasnotthefullextentofitsresemblancetoatruechimera,forsomehowthehouseprojecteditselfashavingacquireditspresentformthrough a fabulous overlap of properties. There seemed to be the appearance of

petrifiedfleshinitsroughoutersurfaces,anditwasverysimpletoimagineaninnerframeworknotofbeamsandboards,butratherofgiganticbonesfromgreatbeastsof old. The chimneys and shingles, windows and doorways were thus theembellishments of a later age which had misunderstood the real essence of thisancient monstrosity, transforming it into a motley and ludicrous thing. Littlewonder,then,thatinshameitwouldattempttorejectitsrealityandpassitselfoffas only a shadow on the horizon, a thing of nightmarish beauty that arousedimpossiblehopes.

Asinthepast,Ilookedtotheunseeninteriorofsuchahousetobethefocusof unknown… celebrations. Itwasmy conviction that the innerworld of thesedwellingsparticipated,aftertheirownstyle,inakindofceremoniousdesolation—thattranslucentfestivalsmightbeglimpsedinthecornersofcertainroomsandthatthefarawaysoundsofmadcarnivalsfilledcertainhallwaysatallhoursofthedayandnight. I amafraid, however, that apeculiar feature of thehouse inquestionpreventedfullindulgenceinmyusualanticipations.Myreferencehereistoaturretbuiltintoonesideofthehouseandrisingtoanunusualheightbeyonditsroof,sothat it looked out upon the world as a lighthouse, diminishing the aspect ofintrospectionthatisvitaltosuchstructures.Andnearthecone-roofedpeakofthisturret, a row of largewindows appeared to have been placed, as a quite recentmodification,arounditsentirecircumference.Butifthehousewastrulyemployingitswindowstogazeoutwardmorethanwithin,whatitsawwasnothing.Forallthewindowsofthethreeamplestoriesofthehouse,aswellasthoseoftheturretandthatsmalloctagonalapertureintheattic,wereshutteredclosed.

Thiswas, in fact, the state inwhich I anticipated finding thehouse, since IhadalreadyexchangednumerousletterswithRaymondSpare,thepresentowner.

“I thoughtyouwouldarrivemuchsooner,”Spare saidonopening thedoor.“It’salmostnightfallandIwassureyouunderstoodthatonlyatcertaintimes…”

“Myapologies,butI’mherenow.ShallIcomein?”Sparesteppedasideandgesturedtheatricallytowardtheinteriorofthehouse,

as if he were presenting one of those dubious spectacles that had earned him a

substantial livelihood. It was out of an instinct for mystification that he hadadoptedthesurnameofthefamedvisionaryandartist,evenclaimingsomebloodorspiritualkinshipwiththisgreateccentric.ButtonightIwasplayingtheskeptic,asIhad in my correspondence with Spare, so that I might force him to earn mycredence.Therewouldhavebeennootherwaytogainhisinvitationtowitnessthephenomena that, as I understood from sources other than the illusionistic Spare,werewellworthmyattention.Unexpectedly,myhostwasmundaneinappearance,whichmadeitdifficulttokeepinmindhisreputationforshowmanship,hisgiftfortrumped-uphistrionics.

“Youhave lefteverythingashehad itbeforeyou?”Iasked,referringtothedeceasedformerownerwhosenameSpareneverdisclosedtome,thoughIknewitallthesame.Butthatwasofnoimportance.

“Yes,verymuchasitwas.Excellenthousekeeper,allthingsconsidered.”Spare’s observation was regrettably true: the interior of the house was

immaculatetothepointofbeingsuspect.Thegreatparlorinwhichwenowsat,aswell as those other rooms and hallways that receded into the house, exuded theatmosphereofaplushandwell-tendedmausoleumwherethedeadaretrulyatrest.Thefurnishingsweredenseandarchaic,yettheybetrayednooppressiveawarenessof other times, no secret conspiracies with departed spirits, regardless of theunnatural mood of twilight created by fastidiously clamped shutters whichadmittednoneofnature’s true twilight from theoutsideworld.The clock that Iheard resonantly ticking in a nearby room caused no sinister echoes to soundbetweendark,polishedfloorsandlofty,uncobwebbedceilings.Absentwasallfearorhopeofencounteringamalignpresenceinthecellaroraninsaneshadowintheattic.Despite a certain odd effect created by thaumaturgic curios appearing on ashelf,aswellasahermeticchartoftheheavensnicelyframedandhanginguponawall,nohintofhauntednesswasevokedbyeitherthesurfacesorobscuritiesofthishouse.

“Quiteaninnocentambiance,”saidSpare,whodisplayednospecialprowessinvoicingthisthoughtofmine.

“Astonishinglyso.Wasthatpartofhisintention?”Sparelaughed.“Thetruthisthatthiswashisoriginalintention,thegenesisof

whatlateroccupiedhisgenius.Inthebeginning…”“Aspiritualwasteland?”“Exactly,”Spareconfirmed.“Sterilebut…safe.”“You understand, then. His reputation was for risk not retreat. But the

notebooksareveryclearonthesufferingcausedbyhisfantasticgifts,hisincrediblesensitivity. He required spiritually antiseptic surroundings, yet was hopelesslytemptedbythevisionary.Againandagaininhisnotebookshedescribeshimselfas‘overwhelmed’tothepointofmadness.Youcanappreciatetheirony.”

“Icancertainlyappreciatethehorror,”Ireplied.“Of course, well…tonight we will have the advantage of his unfortunate

experience.BeforetheeveningadvancesmuchfurtherIwanttoshowyouwhereheworked.”

“Andtheshutteredwindows?”Iasked.“‘Theyareverymuchtothepoint,”heanswered.Theworkshop of which Spare had spokenwas located, as one might have

surmised, in the uppermost story of the turret in the westernmost part of thehouse.Thiscircularroomcouldonlybereachedbyclimbingatwistingandtenuousstairway into the attic,where a second set of stairs ledup into the turret. Sparefumbledwiththekeytothelowwoodendoor,andsoonwehadgainedentrance.

TheroomwasdefinitelywhatSparehadimplied:aworkshop,oratleasttheremains of one. “It seems that toward the end he had begun to destroy hisapparatus,aswellassomeofhiswork,”SpareexplainedasIsteppedintotheroomandsawthedebriseverywhere.Muchofthemessconsistedofshatteredpanesofglassthathadbeencoloredanddistortedinstrangeways.Anumberofthemstillexistedintact,leaningagainstthecurvingwallorlyinguponalongworktable.Afew were set up on wooden easels like paintings in progress, the bizarretransformationsoftheirsurfacesleftunfinished.Thesepanesofcorruptedglasshad

beencutintoavarietyofshapes,andeachhadaffixedtoit—uponalittlecard—ascribbled character resembling an oriental ideograph. Similar symbols, althoughmuch larger, had been inscribed into thewood of the shutters that covered thewindowsallaroundtheroom.

“AsymbologythatIcannotpretendtounderstand,”Spareadmitted,“exceptinitsfunction.Here,seewhathappenswhenIremovetheselabelswiththelittlefiguressquiggledonthem.”

IwatchedasSparewentabouttheroomstrippingthemisshapenglyphsfromthosechromaticallydeformedpanelsofglass.AnditwasnotlongbeforeInoticedachangeinthegeneralcharacteroftheroom,ashiftinatmosphericsaswhenaclearday is suddenly complicated by the shadowy nuances of clouds. Previously thecircularchamberhadbeenbathedinatwistedkaleidoscopeofcolorsasthesimplelightsaroundtheroomdiffusedthroughthestrangelytintedwindowpanes.Buttheeffect had been purely decorative, an experience restricted to the realm ofaesthetics, with no implications of the spectral. Now, however, a new elementpermeated the room, partially and briefly exposing qualities of quite a differentorder in which the visible gave way to the transcendental.What formerly hadappearedasanartist’sstudio,howevereccentric,wasgraduallyinheritingtheauraofastained-glasscathedral,albeitonethathadsufferedsomeobscuredesecration.Incertainplacesuponthefloor,theceiling,andthecircularwallwiththeshutteredwindows,Iperceivedthroughthoseprismaticlensesvagueformswhichseemedtobestrugglingtowardvisibility, freakishoutlines laboring togain fullembodiment.Whether their nature was that of the dead or the demonic—or possibly somepeculiarprogenygeneratedbytheirunion—Icouldnottell.Butwhateverclassofcreationtheyseemedtooccupyatthetime, itwascertainthattheyweregainingnot only in clarity and substance, but also in size, swelling and surging andexpandingtheiruniversetowardaneclipseofthisworld’svision.

“Is it possible,” I said, turning to Spare, “that this effect ofmagnification issolelyapropertyofthemediumthroughwhich…”

But before I could complete my speculation, Spare was rushing about the

room,franticallyreplacingthesymbolsoneachsheetofglass,dissolvingtheimagesinto a quivering translucence and then obliterating or masking them altogether.Theroomlapsedonceagainintoitsformerstateofiridescentsterility.ThenSparehastilyusheredmebacktothegroundfloor,thedoortotheturretroomstandinglockedbehindus.

Afterwardheservedasmyguidethroughtheother,lesscrucialroomsofthehouse, eachofwhichwas sealedbydark shutters and all ofwhich shared in thesame barren atmosphere—the aftermath of a strange exorcism, a purging of thegroundswhichleftthemneitherhallowednorunholy,buthadsimplyturnedtheminto a pristine laboratory where a fearful genius had practiced his science ofnightmares.

Wepassedseveralhoursinthesmall,lamplitlibrary.Thesolewindowofthatroomwas curtained, and I imagined that I saw the night’s darkness behind thepattern.ButwhenIputmyhanduponthatsymmetricalandvelvetydesign,Ifeltonlysolidityontheotherside,asifIhadtouchedacoffinbeneathitspall.Itwasthis barrier thatmade theworld outside seem twice darkened, although I knewthat when the shutters were opened I would be faced with one of the clearestnightseverseen.

For some time Spare read to me passages from the notebooks whosecryptographyhehadbroken.Isatandlistenedtoavoicethatwasaccustomedtospeaking of miracles, a well-practiced tout of mystical freakshows. Yet I alsodetected a grave sincerity in hiswords,which is to say that his usual unruffledpattercontaineddissonantovertonesoffear.

“We sleep,” he read, “among the shadows of anotherworld.These are theunshapelysubstanceinflicteduponusandtheprimematerialtowhichwegivetheshapesofourunderstanding.Andthoughwecreatewhat isseen,yetwearenotthecreatorsofitsessence.Thusnightmaresarebornfromtheimpressofourselveson the life of things unknown. How terrible these forms of specter and demonwhen the eyes of the flesh cast light and mold the shadows which are foreveraroundus.Howmuchmoreterribletowitnesstheirtrueformsroamingfreeupon

the land, or in themost homely rooms of our houses, or frolicking through thatluminous hell which in pursuit of psychic survival we have named the heavens.Thenwe trulywaken fromour sleep, but only to sleep oncemore and shun thenightmares which must ever return to that part of us which is hopelesslydreaming.”

Afterwitnessingsomeofthephenomenawhichhadinspiredthishypothesis,Icouldnot escape becoming somewhat entrancedwith its elegance, if notwith itsoriginality. Nightmares both within and around us had been integrated into asystemthatseemedtowarrantadmiration.However,theschemewasultimatelynomore than terror recollected in tranquility, a formula reflecting little of themazytrauma that had initiated these speculations. Should it be called revelation ordeliriumwhenthemindinterposes itselfbetweenthesensationsofthesoulandamonstrousmystery?Truthwasnotanissueinthismatter,norwerethemechanicsoftheexperiment(which,eveniffaulty,yieldedworthyresults),andinmyminditwasfaithfulnesstothemysteryanditsterrorthatwasparamount,evensacred.Inthisthetheoreticianofnightmareshadfailed,fallenonthe lucidbladeoftheoriesthat,intheend,couldnotsavehim.Ontheotherhand,thosewonderfulsymbolsthatSparewasatalosstoilluminate,thosecrudeandcrypticdesigns,representedagenuine power against themystery’smadness, yet could not be explained by themostesotericanalysis.Astheerstwhileownerofthehouseknew,wetrulyliveintheshadowofanotherworld,onewhichhedesignedhis residenceeither to shutout or reveal as he chose, but which in the end overtook him before he had achancetoshutterforgoodthosewindowsthatdisclosedthederangedandterriblequiddityofexistence.

“Ihaveaquestion,”IsaidtoSparewhenhehadclosedthevolumeheheldonhis lap.“Theshutterselsewhere in thehousearenotpaintedwiththesigns thatareonthoseintheturret.Canyouenlightenme?”

Spareledmetothewindowanddrewbackthecurtains.Verycautiouslyhepulledoutoneof the shutters just far enough to expose its edge,which revealedthat something of a contrasting color and texture composed a layer between the

twosidesofthedarkwood.“Engraveduponapanelofglassplacedinsideeachshutter,”

heexplained.“Andtheonesintheturret?”Iasked.“The same. Whether the extra set of symbols there are precautionary or

merelyredundant…”Hisvoicehadfadedandthenstopped,thoughthepausedidnotseemtoimply

anythoughtfulnessonSpare’spart.“Yes,”Iprompted,“precautionaryorredundant.”For a moment he revived. “That is, whether the symbols were an added

measureagainst…”ItwasatthispointthatSparementallyabandonedthescene,followingwithin

hisownmindsomecontroversyorsuspicion,awitnesstoadramaticconflictbeingenacteduponaremoteandshadowystage.

“Spare,”Isaidinasomewhatnormalvoice.“Spare,” he repeated, but in a voice that was not his own, a voice that

soundedmore like the echo of a voice than natural speech.And for amoment Iassertedmypose of skepticism, placingnone ofmy confidence in Spare or in thethingshehadthusfarshownme, forIknewthathewasanadeptofpasteboardvisions, amediumwhose hauntingswere ofmucilage and gauze. But howmuchmoresubtleandskillfulwerethepresenteffects,as thoughheweremanipulatingtheveryatmospherearoundus,pullingthestringsoflightandshadow.

“The clearest light isnowshining,”he said in thathollow, tremulousvoice.“Now light is flowing in the glass,” he spoke, placing his hand upon the shutterbeforehim.“Shadowsgatheringagainst…against…”

AnditseemedthatSparewasnotsomuchpullingtheshutterawayfromthewindow as trying to push the shutter closedwhile it slowly opened further andfurther, allowing a strange radiance to leak gradually into the house. It alsoappearedthathefinallygaveupthestruggleandletanotherforceguidehisactions.“Flowing together inme,”he repeated several timesashewent fromwindowto

window, methodically opening the shutters like a sleepwalker performing someobscureritual.

Ransomingalljudgmenttofascination,Iwatchedhimpassthrougheachroomon themain floorof thehouse, executinghisduties like anold servant.Thenheascended a long staircase, and I heard his footsteps traversing the floor above,evenly pacing from one side of the house to the other. He was now a nightwatchmanmakinghisroundsinaccordancewithastrangedesign.Thesoundofhismovements grew fainter as he progressed to the next floor and continued toperformtheservicesrequiredofhim.Ilistenedverycloselyasheproceededonhissomnambulistic course into the attic.Andwhen I heard the echoes of a distantdoorasitslammedshut,Iknewhehadgoneintothatroomintheturret.

Engrossed in the lesser phenomenon of Spare’s suddenly altered behavior, Ihadmomentarilyoverlookedthegreateroneofthewindows.ButnowIcouldnolongerignorethosephosphorescentpaneswhichfocusedorreflectedtheincrediblebrillianceoftheskythatnight.AsIfollowedSpare’scircuitaboutthemainfloor,Isawthateachroomwasglowingwiththesuperlunarylightthatwasoutlinedbyeachwindowframe. Inthe libraryIpausedandapproachedoneof thewindows,reachingouttotouchitswrinkledsurface.AndIfeltalivelyripplingintheglass,asifthereactuallyweresomeforceflowingwithinit,anuncannysensationthatmytinglingfingertipswillneverbeabletoforget.Butitwasthescenebeyondtheglassthatfinallypossessedmyattention.

For a few moments I looked out only upon the level landscape thatsurrounded the house, its open expanse lying desolate and pale beneath theresplendentheavens.Then,almostinconspicuously,differentscenesorfragmentsofscenes began to intrude upon the outside vicinity, as if other geographies of theearth were being superimposed upon the local one, composing a patchwork ofimages that might seem to have been the hallucinated tableaux of some cosmictapestry.

Thewindows—which,forlackofamoreaccurateterm,Imustcallenchanted—had done their work. For the visions they offered were indeed those of a

haunted world, a multi-faceted mural portraying the marriage of insanity andmetaphysics. As the images clarified, I witnessed all the intersections whichcommonlyremainunseentoearthlysight,theconjoiningofplanesofentitywhichshould exclude eachother and shouldnomorebemingled than is fleshwith theinanimate objects that surround it. But this is precisely what took place in thescenesbeforeme,anditappearedthatthereexistednoplaceonearththatwasnotthehomeofaspectralontogeny.Inbrief,thewholeoftheworldwasapageantofnightmares.

Sunlitbazaarsinexoticcitiesthrongedwithfacesthatweretransparentmasksfor insectoid countenances; moonlit streets in antique towns harbored a strange-eyedslitheringwithintheirverystones;dimgalleriesofemptymuseumssproutedaghostlymoldthatmirroredthesullenhuesofoldpaintings;thelandattheedgeofoceans gave birth to a new evolution transcending biology and remote islandsoffered themselves as a haven for forms having no analogy outside of dreams;jungles teemedwith beast-like shapes thatmoved beside the sticky luxuriance aswellasthroughthedepthsofitspulpywarmth;desertswerealivewithanuncannyflux of sounds which might enter and animate the world of substance; andsubterraneanlandscapesheavedwithcadaverousgenerationsthathadsunkenandmerged into sculptures of human coral, bodies heaped and unwhole, limbsprojectingwithoutorder,eyesscatteredandsearchingthedarkness.

My own eyes suddenly closed, shutting out the visions for amoment.AndduringthatmomentIonceagainbecameawareofthesterilequalityofthehouse,ofits“innocentambiance.”ItwasthenthatIrealizedthatthishousewaspossiblytheonlyplaceonearth,perhapsintheentireuniverse,thathadbeencuredoftheplague of phantoms that raged everywhere.This achievement, however futile orperverse, nowelicited fromme tremendous admiration as amonument toTerrorandthestrickeningenuityitmayinspire.

AndmyadmirationintensifiedasIpursuedthewaythatSparehadlaidoutformeandascendedabackstaircasetothesecondfloor.Foronthis level,whereroom followed upon room through amaze of interconnecting doorswhich Spare

had left open, there seemed to be an escalation in the optical power of thewindows,thusheighteningthethreattothehouseandits inhabitants.Whathadappeared, through the windows of the floor below, as scenes in which spectralmonstrositieshadmerely intrudeduponorthodox reality,werenowmagnified tothepointwhere thatrealityunderwenta furthereclipse: theotherrealmbecamedominantandpushedthroughthecoverofmasks,theconcealmentofstones,spreaditsmoldy growths atwill, generating apparitions of themost feverish propertiesandintentions,erectingformationsthatenshadowedallfamiliarorder.

By the time I reached the third floor, Iwas somewhat prepared forwhat Imight find, granted the elevating intensity of the visions towhich thewindowsweregivingincreasinglygreaterforceandfocus.Eachwindowwasnowaframedphantasmagoria of churning and forever changing shapes and colors, fabulousdepthsanddistancesopeningtothefascinatedeye,grotesquetransfigurationsthatsuggestedapurelysupernaturalorder,asystemlesscosmogonyreelingwithallthecaprice of the immaterial.And as Iwandered through those empty andweirdlylucent rooms at the top of house, it seemed that the house itself had beentransportedtoanotheruniverse.

I have no idea how long I had been enthralled by the chaotic fantasiesimposingthemselvesupontheunprotectedroomsofmymind.Butthistrancewaseventuallyinterruptedbyacommotionemanatingfromanevenhigherroom—thevery crownof the turret and, as itwere, the cranial chamber of thatmany-eyedbeast of a house.Makingmyway up the narrow, spiraling stairs to the attic, Ifound that there, too, Spare had unsealed the octagonal window, which nowseemedthegazingeyeofsomegodasitcastforthapyrotechniccrazeofcolorsandgaveafrenziedlifetoshadows.ThroughthismazeofillusionsIfollowedthevoicewhichwasmerelyavibratingechoofvocalutterance,thecounterpartinsoundtotheswirlingsightsaroundme.Iclimbedthelaststairwaytothedoorleadingintotheturret,listeningtothereverberantwordsthatsoundedfromtheotherside.

“Now the shadows aremoving in the stars as they aremovingwithinme,within all things. And their brilliance must reach throughout all things, all the

placeswhicharecreatedaccordingtotheessenceoftheseshadowsandofourselves. . . This house is an abomination, a vacuum and a void. Nothing must standagainst…against…”

And with each repetition of this last word it seemed that a struggle wastaking place and that the echoing alien voice was fading as the tone of Spare’snaturalvoicewasgainingdominance.Finally,Spareappearedtohaveresumedfullpossession of himself. Then there was a pause, a brief interim during which Iconsideredanumberofdoubtful strategies,anxiousnot tomisuse thismomentofunknownandextravagantpossibilities.Wasitmerelytheendoflifethatfacedonewho remained in that room? Could the experience that had preceded thedisappearance of that other visionary, under identical circumstances, perhaps beworththestrangepriceonewouldbeaskedtopay?Noocculttheories,noarcaneanalyses,couldbeofanyuseinmakingmydecision,norjustlyservethesensationsofthosefewseconds,whenIstoodgrippingthehandleofthatdoor,waitingfortheimpulseoraccidentthatwoulddecideeverything.Allthatexistedforthemomentwastheirreduciblecertaintyofnightmare.

From the other side of thedoor therenow came a low, echoing laughter, asoundwhichbecamelouderasthelaughingoneapproached.ButIwasnotmovedbythissoundanddidnothingexceptgripthedoorhandlemoretightly,dreamingofthegreatshadowsinthestars,ofthestrangevisionsbeyondthewindows,andof an infinite catastrophe.Then I heard a soft scraping noise atmy feet; lookingdown,Isawseveralsmallrectanglesprojectingfromunderthedoor,fannedoutlikeahandofcards.Myonlyactionwastostoopandretrieveoneofthem,tostareinmindlesswondermentatthemysterioussymbolwhichdecorateditsface.Icountedtheothers, realizing thatnonehadbeen left attached to thewindowswithin theroomintheturret.

Itwasthethoughtofwhateffectthesewindowsmighthave,nowthattheyhadbeenstrippedof theirprotectivesignsandstood inthe fullglareof starlight,thatmademecallouttoSpare,eventhoughIcouldnotbesurethathestillexistedashisformerself.Butbythenthehollowlaughterhadstopped,andIamsurethat

the last voice I heard was that of Raymond Spare. And when the voice beganscreaming—thewindows, itsaid,pullingmeintothestarsandshadows—Icouldnothelp trying to enter the room.Butnow that the impetus for this actionhadarrived, it proved to be useless for both Spare and myself. For the door wassecurelylocked,andSpare’svoicewasfadingintonothingness.

I can only imagine what those last few moments were like among all thewindowsofthatturretroomandamongordersofexistencebeyondalldefinition.Thatnight,itwastoSparealonethatsuchsecretswereconfided;hewastheonetowhomitfell—bysomedisasterordesign—tobeamongtheelect.Suchprivilegedarcana,onthisoccasionatleast,werenottobemine.Nevertheless,itseemedatthetime that some fragment of this experiencemight be salvaged.And to do this, Ibelieved,wasasimplematterofabandoningthehouse.

My intuitionwas correct.For as soonas Ihadgoneout into thenight andturnedbacktofacethehouse,Icouldseethatitsroomswerenolongerempty,nolonger the pristine apartments I had lamented earlier that evening. As I hadthought, these windows were for looking in as well as out. And from where Istood, the sights were now all inside the house, which had become an edificepossessedbythefestivitiesofanotherworld.Iremainedthereuntilmorning,whenacoldsunlightsettledthemotleyphantasmsofthenightbefore.

YearslaterIhadtheopportunitytorevisitthehouse.Inconformitywithmyintuition, I found theplacebareandabandoned: everyoneof itswindow frameswas empty and there was not a sign of glass anywhere. In the nearby town Idiscoveredthatthehousehadalsoacquiredabadreputation.Foryearsnoonehadgone near it.Wisely avoiding the enchantments of hell, the citizens of the townhavekept to theirown little streetsofgently stirring treesandold silenthouses.Andwhatmorecantheydointhewayofcaution?Howcantheyknowwhatitistheirhousesaretrulynestledamong?Theycannotsee,norevenwishtosee,thatworld of shadows with which they consort every moment of their brief andinnocent lives.Butoften,perhapsduringthevisionarytimeoftwilight,Iamsuretheyhavesensedit.

TheCocoons

Earlyonemorning,hoursbeforesunrise,IwasawakenedbyDr.Dublanc.Hewasstandingatthefootofmybed, lightlytuggingon its layeredcovers. Inmyquasi-somnolent state, Iwas convinced for amoment that a small animalwasprancingaboutonmybedclothes, itsmovementssignifyingsomenocturnalritualunknownto higher forms of life. Then I saw a gloved hand twitching in the glow of thestreetlightoutsidemywindow.Finally,Iidentifiedthesilhouette,shapedbyahatandovercoat,ofDr.Dublanc.

Iswitchedonthenightstandlampandsatuptofacethewell-knownintruder.“What’swrong?”Iaskedasifinprotest.

“My apologies,” he said in a rather unapologetic tone. “There is someone Iwantyoutomeet.Ithinkitmightbebeneficialforyou.”

“Ifthat’swhatyousay.Butcan’titwait?Ihaven’tbeensleepingwellasitis.Betterthananyoneyoushouldknowthat.”

“Of course I know. I also know other things,” he asserted, betraying hisannoyance.“ThegentlemanIwanttointroducetoyouwillbeleavingthecountryverysoon,sothereisaquestionoftiming.”

“Allthesame…”“Yes,Iknow—yournervouscondition.Here,takethese.”Dr.Dublancplacedtwoegg-shapedpillsinthepalmofmyhand.Iputthemto

mylipsandthenswallowedahalf-glassofwaterthatwasonthenightstand.Isetdowntheemptyglassnexttomyalarmclock,whichemittedasoftgrindingnoiseduetosomeunknownmutationsofitsinternalmechanism.Myeyesbecamefixedby the slow, evenmovement of the second hand, but Dr. Dublanc, in a quietlyurgentvoice,broughtmeoutofmytrance.

“Weshouldreallybegoing.Ihaveataxiwaitingoutside.”So Ihurried, thinking that Iwouldendupbeingcharged for this excursion,

cabfareandall.Dr. Dublanc had left the taxi standing in the alley behind my apartment

building.Itsheadlightsbeamedratherweaklyintheblackness,scarcelyguidingusaswe approached the vehicle. Side by side, the doctor and I proceeded over the

uneven pavement and through blotched vapors emerging from the fumaroles ofseveralsewercovers.Icouldseethemoonshiningbetweenthecloserooftops,andIthought that it subtly shifted phases beforemy eyes, bloating a bit into fullness.Thedoctorcaughtmestaring.

“It’snotgoinghaywireupthere,ifthat’swhatisbotheringyou.”“Butitseemedtobechanging.”Withagrowlofexasperation,thedoctorpulledmeafterhimintothecab.The driver appeared to have been stilled into a state of dormancy.YetDr.

Dublancwasabletoevokearesponsewhenhecalledoutanaddresstothehack,whoturnedhisthinrodentfacetowardthebackseatandglaredbriefly.Foratimewesatinsilenceasthetaxicoastedthroughaseriesofunpeopledavenues.Atthathourtheworldontheothersideofmywindowseemedtobenomorethanamassof shadowswavering at a great distance. The doctor touchedmy arm and said,“Don’tworryifthepillsIgaveyouseemtohavenoimmediateeffect.”

“I trust your judgment,” I said, only to receive a doubtful glance from thedoctor.“Well,itwouldhelpifyoutoldmewhywe’resittinginthebackofataxiat this hour. Just who are we going to see that’s so important? What’s themystery?”

“No mystery,” the doctor replied. “We’re going to see a former patient ofmine.Not to say that someunfortunate aspectsdonot still exist inhis case.ForcertainreasonsIwillbeintroducinghimtoyouas‘Mr.Catch,’thoughhe’salsoadoctorofsorts—abrilliantscientist, in fact.PrimarilyIwould likeyoutoviewadocument relating to his work. A film, to be precise. It’s something quiteremarkable.And possibly beneficial—to you, Imean.That’s all I can say at themoment.”

Inoddedasifthisdisclosurehadsatisfiedme.ThenInoticedhowfarwehadgone,almosttotheoppositeendofthecity,ifthatwaspossibleinwhatseemedarelatively short period of time. (I had forgotten to wear my watch, and thisnegligencesomewhataggravatedmylackoforientation.)Thedistrictinwhichwewere now traveling was of the lowest order, a landscape without pattern or

substance,especiallyasIvieweditbymoonlight.Theremight be an open fieldheapedwithdebris, a devastatedplainwhere

bitsofglassandscrapsofmetalglittered.Occasionallyasolitarybuildingofsomeindiscernible nature stood out in this wasteland, a skeletal structure with allmarkings of identity scraped off its bones. And then, turning a corner, one leftbehind this lunar spaciousness and entered a densely tangled nest of houses, thedwarfishand thegreatall tightlynestled togetherandall eatenaway,disfigured.EvenasIwatchedthemthroughthetaxi’swindowstheyappearedtobecarryingon their corruption,mutating in the dull light of themoon.Roofs and chimneyselongatedtowardthestars,darkbricksmultipliedandbulgedliketumorsuponthefacades of houses, entire streets twisted themselves along some unearthly design.Althougha fewwindowswere filledwith light,however sickly, theonlyhumanbeingIsawwasaderelictcrumpledatthebaseofatrafficsign.

“Sorry,doctor,butthismaybetoomuch.”“Justholdontoyourself,”hesaid,“we’realmostthere.Driver,pullintothat

alleybehindthosehouses.”Thetaxijoggledaswemadeourwaythroughthenarrowpassage.Oneither

side of uswere highwooden fences beyondwhich rose somany houses of suchimpressiveheightandbulk,thoughofcoursetheywerestillmonumentstodecay.Thecab’sheadlightswerebarelyuptothetaskof illuminatingthecramped littlealley,whichseemedtobecomeevernarrowerthefurtherweproceeded.Suddenlythedriverjerkedustoastoptoavoidrunningoveranoldmanslouchedagainstthefence,anemptybottlelyingathisside.

“Thisiswherewegetout,”saidDr.Dublanc.“Waithereforus,driver.”AsweemergedfromthetaxiIpulledatthedoctor’ssleeve,whisperingabout

theexpenseofthefare.Herepliedinaloudvoice,“Youshouldworrymoreaboutgetting a taxi to take us back home. They keep their distance from thisneighborhoodand rarelyanswer the calls they receive to come inhere. Isn’t thattrue,driver?”ButthemanhadreturnedtothatdormantstateinwhichIfirstsawhim.“Comeon,”saidthedoctor.“He’llwaitforus.Thisway.”

Dr.Dublancpushedbackasectionofthefencethatformedakindoflooselyhingedgate,closingitcarefullybehindusafterwepassedthroughtheopening.Ontheother sidewasa smallbackyard, actuallyaminiaturedumpinggroundwhereshadows bulgedwith refuse.And before us, I assumed, stood the house ofMr.Catch.Itseemedverylarge,withanincrediblenumberofbonypeaksanddormersoutlinedagainstthesky,andevenaweathervaneinsomevagueanimal-shapethatstood atop a ruined turret grazed by moonlight. But although the moonwas asbrightasbefore,itnowappearedtobeconsiderablythinner,asifithadbeenworndownjustlikeeverythingelseinthatneighborhood.

“Ithasn’taltered in the least,” thedoctorassuredme.Hewasholdingopenthebackdoorofthehouseandgesturingformetoapproach.

“Perhapsnoone’shome,”Isuggested.“Thedoor’sunlocked.Youseehowhe’sexpectingus?”“Theredon’tappeartobeanylightsinuse.”“Mr.Catchlikestoconserveoncertainexpenses.Aminormaniaofhis.Butin

other ways he’s quite extravagant.And by no means is he a poor man.Watchyourselfontheporch—someoftheseboardsarenotwhattheyoncewere.”

Assoonas Iwasstandingbythedoctor’s sideheremoveda flashlight fromthepocketofhisovercoat,shiningapathintothedarkinteriorofthehouse.Onceinside,thatyellowishswatchofilluminationbeganflittingaroundintheblackness.It settled briefly in a cobwebbed corner of the ceiling, then ran down a blankbatteredwalland jitteredalongwarpedfloormoldings.Foramoment it revealedtwosuitcases,quitewellused,atthebottomofastairway.Itslidsmoothlyupthestairway banister and flew straight to the floors above, where we heard somescrapingsounds,asifananimalwithlong-nailedpawswasmovingabout.

“DoesMr.Catchkeepapet?”Iaskedinalowvoice.“Whyshouldn’the?ButIdon’tthinkwe’llfindhimupthere.”We went deeper into the house, passing through many rooms which

fortunatelywereunobstructedbyfurniture.Sometimeswecrushedbitsofbrokenglass underfoot; once I inadvertently kicked an empty bottle and sent it clanging

acrossabarefloor.Reachingthefarsideofthehouse,weenteredalonghallwayflanked by several doors.All of themwere closed and behind some of themweheard sounds similar to those being made on the second floor. We also heardfootstepsslowlyascendingastairway.Thenthelastdoorattheendofthehallwayopened,andawaterylightpushedbacksomeoftheshadowsaheadofus.Around-bodiedlittlemanwasstandinginthelight,lazilybeckoningtous.

“You’re late. You’re very late,” he chided while leading us down into thecellar.Hisvoicewashigh-pitchedyetalsoquiteraspy.“Iwasjustabouttoleave.”

“My apologies,” said Dr. Dublanc, who sounded entirely sincere on thisoccasion.“Mr.Catch,allowmetointroduce—”

“Nevermindthat‘Mr.Catch’nonsense.Youknowwellenoughwhatthingsarelikeforme,don’tyou,doctor?Solet’sgetstarted,I’monaschedulenow.”

In the cellarwepaused amid thequivering light of candles, dozens of thempositionedhighandlow,meltinguponashelforanoldcrateorrightonthefilth-covered floor.Among the surrounding objects, I could see that an old-fashionedfilm projector had been set up on a table toward the center of the room, and aportablemoviescreenstoodbytheoppositewall.Theprojectorwaspluggedintowhatappearedtobeasmallelectricalgeneratorhummingonthefloor.

“Ithinktherearesomechairsaboutthatyoucansiton,”saidMr.Catchashethreaded the film around the spools of the projector. Then for the first time hespoketomedirectly.“I’mnotsurehowmuchthedoctorhasexplainedaboutwhatI’mgoingtoshowyou.Probablyverylittle.”

“Yes,anddeliberatelyso,”interruptedDr.Dublanc.“IfyoujustrollthefilmIthinkmypurposewillbeserved,withorwithoutexplanations.Whatharmcanitdo?”

Mr.Catchmadenoreply.Afterblowingout someof thecandles todarkenthe room sufficiently, he switched on the projector, which was a rather noisymechanism. Iworriedthatwhateverdialogueornarrationthe filmmightcontainwouldbedrownedoutbetweenthewhirringoftheprojectorandthehummingofthegenerator.ButIsoonrealizedthatthiswasasilentfilm,acinematicdocument

thatineveryaspectofitsproductionwasthoroughlyprimitive,fromitsharshlightandcoarsephotographictexturetoitsnearlyunintelligiblescenario.

It seemed to serve as a visual record of a scientific experiment, a laboratorydemonstrationinfact.Thesetting,nevertheless,wasanythingbutclinical—abarewall in a cellarwhich in someways resembled, yetwasnot identical to, the onewhere Iwasviewing this film.Andthe subjectwashuman:a shabby,unshaven,andunconscious derelictwhohadbeenproppedup against a crude grayishwall.Not toomanymoments passed before themanbegan to stir, perhaps awakeningfrom a deep stupor.However, themovements hemade did not appear to be hisown.Morespecifically,theyseemedtobethespasmodictwitchingsofsomeenergythatinhabitedtheoldtramp.Oneofhislegswiggledforasecond.Thenhischestheavedandcollapsed.Soonhisheadbegantowobble,anditkeptonwobbling,asifsomething was making its way through the derelict’s scalp, rustling among longgreasylocks.Partofitfinallypokedupwards—athinsticklikething.Moreofthememerged, darkwiry appendages thatwerebristling andbending and reaching fortheouterworld.Attheendofeachwasapairofslendersnappingpincers.Whatultimately broke through that shattered skull, pulling itself outwith awrigglingmotionofitsmanynewbornarms,wasapproximatelythesizeandproportionsofaspidermonkey.Ithadtinytranslucentwingswhichflutteredafewtimes,glisteningbutuseless,andseemedtobeinanemaciatedcondition.Whenittwisteditsheadtoward the camera, it stared into the lenswithmalicious eyes and seemed to bechatteringwithitsbeakedmouth.

IwhisperedtoDr.Dublanc:“Please,I’mafraidthat—”“Exactly,”hehissedbackatme.“Butyouneedtofacecertainrealitiessothat

youmayfreeyourselffromyourfearofthem.”Nowitwasmyturntogivethedoctoradubiouslook.Iwasnotblindtothe

factthathewaspracticingahighlyunconventionalformoftherapeutics,tosaytheleast.Andourpresenceinthatcellar—thatcoldswampofshadowsinwhichcandlesflickeredlikefireflies—seemedtobeasmuchforDr.Dublanc’sbenefitasitwasformine,if“benefit”istheproperword

inthiscase.“Youmightindulgemeonoccasion,”Isaid.“Shhh.Watchthefilm.”Itwasalmostfinished.Afterthecreaturehadhatchedfromitsstrangeegg,it

proceededveryrapidlytoconsumethegrubbyderelict,leavingonlyacollectionofbonesattiredincast-offclothes.Pickedperfectlyclean,theskull leanedwearilytooneside.Andthecreature,whichearlierhadbeensoemaciated,hadgrownratherplumpwithitsfeast,becomingbloatedandmeatylikeanoverfeddog.Inthefinalsequence, a net was tossed into the scene, capturing the gigantic vermin anddraggingitoffcamera.Thenwhitenessfilledthescreenandthefilmwasflappingonitsreel.

“Sowhatdidyouthink?”saidthedoctor.NodoubtnoticingthatIwasstillunderthespellofwhatIhadjustseen,hesnappedhisfingersinfrontofmyface.Iblinkedandthenlookedathimindazedsilence.Takingadvantageofthemoment,hetriedtolendacertainfocusorcolorationtotheeventsofthefilm.“Youmustunderstand,”heexplained,“thattheintegrityofmaterialformsisonlyaprejudice.Thisisnottomentionthesubstanceofthoseforms,whichisanevenmoredubiousstateof affairs.Thatamonstrous insect couldburst forth fromtheanatomyof ahuman being should be no cause for consternation. Your prejudices about aclockworkworldofsunriseschedulesandlunarroutineshavebeenarealobstacleinthetherapyI’vebeenpracticingwithyou.You’veputmeinthepositionofhavingtocatertoyouranxietythattheworldisnotruledbyregularity.Butit’stimeyourealizedthatnothingisbolteddown,sotospeak.Andnomoreisthatthingwhichwecall themind,with its craving forevermorenovel sensationsandperceptions.YoucouldlearnagreatdealfromMr.Catch.IknowthatIhave.Ofcourse,Istillrecognizethatthereremainsomeunfortunateaspectstohiscase—therewasonlysomuchIcoulddoforhim—butnonethelessI thinkthathehasgainedrareandinvaluableknowledge,theconsequencesnotwithstanding.

“His researchhad takenhim intoareaswhere,howshould I say,where theshapesand levelsofphenomena,themultipleplanesofnaturalexistence,revealed

their ability to establish new relationships with one another … to becomeinterconnected,asitwere,inwaysthatweneverthoughtpossible.Atsomepointeverything became a blur for him, a sort of pandemonium of forces, aphantasmagoriaofpossibilitieswhichheeagerlyengaged.Wecanhavenoideaofthetastesandtemptationsthatmayemergeordevelopinthecourseofsuchwork… a curious hedonism that could not be controlled. Oh, the vagaries ofomnipotence, breeder of indulgence.Well,Mr.Catch retreated inpanic fromhisownpowers, yet he could not put the pieces back as they had been: unheard ofhabitsandresponseshadalreadyingrainedthemselves intohissystem.Theworstsortofslavery,buthowpersuasivelyhespokeoftheeuphoriahehadknown,theinfinitely diverse sensations beyond all common understanding. It was just thisunderstandingthatIrequiredinordertofreehimofalifethat,initsownfashion,hadbecomeas abysmal andproblematic as yourown—except thathispathologyexistedattheoppositepole.Somemiddlegroundmustbeestablished,somebalance.HowwellIunderstandthatnow!This iswhyIhavebroughtyoutwotogether.Thisistheonlyreason,howeveritmayseemtoyou.”

“Itseemstome,”Ireplied,“thatMr.Catchhassnuckoutonus.Personally,Ihopewe’veseenthelastofhim.”

Dr.Dublancemittedtheshadowofalaugh.“Oh,he’sstillinthehouse.Youcanbesureofthat.Let’stakealookupstairs.”

Hewas,infact,notfaratall.Steppingintothathallwayofcloseddoorsatthetopofthecellarstairs,wesawthatoneofthosedoorswasnowpartiallyopenandtheroombeyonditwasfaintlyaglow.Withoutannouncingus,Dr.Dublancslowlypushedbackthedooruntilwecouldbothseewhathadhappenedinside.

It was a small unfurnished room with a bare wooden floor upon which acandlehadbeenfixedwithitsowndrippings.ThecandlelightshonedimlyonthefullfaceofMr.Catch,whoseemedtohavecollapsedinabackcorneroftheroom,lyingsomewhataskew.Hewassweating,thoughitwascoldintheroom,andhiseyeswerehalf-closedinakindoflanguorousexhaustion.Butsomethingwaswrongwith his mouth: it seemed to be muddied and enlarged, sloppily painted into a

clown’soversizedgrin.Onthefloorbesidehimwere,toallappearances,thefreshlyravagedremainsofoneofthosecreaturesinthefilm.

“Youmademewaittoolong!”hesuddenlyshouted,openinghiseyesfullyandstraighteninghimselfupforamomentbeforehisposturecrumbledonceagain.Hethenrepeatedthisoutburst:“Youcouldn’thelpmeandnowyoumakemewaittoolong.”

“ItwasinordertohelpyouthatIcamehere,”thedoctorsaidtohim,yetallthetimefixinghiseyesonthemutilatedcarcassonthefloor.WhenhesawthatIhadobservedhisgreedystareheregainedhimself.“I’mtryingtohelpbothofyouthe onlyway you can be helped.Tell him,Mr.Catch.Tell himhowyou breedthoseamazingindividualsandenablethemtoinducethemostrapturousexaltation,blissonthebrinkofapotheosis.”

Mr.Catch groped in his pants pocket, pulled out a large handkerchief, andwipedoffhismouth.Hewassmilingidiotically,quiteobviouslyintoxicatedbyhisrecent feast, andwith difficultyworked himself to a standing position.His bodynowseemedevenmoreswollenandbulbousthanbefore,reallynotquitehumaninits proportions.After replacinghis handkerchief in onepocket, he reacheddownintotheother,diggingaroundinsideit.“It’sreallytoomuchtogointodetail,”heexplainedinavoicethathadbecomeplacid.“WhatshouldIsay?Muchof it isapsychicmatter.Hence,myappeal to thedoctor.The rest involves somechemicalformulations to instigatewhat is essentiallyauniversalprocessof transfiguration,the so-calledmiracle of creation in all its forms.A catalyzing agent is introducedintothesubjectbyinseminationoringestion.”Withakindofgiddypride,heheldouthisopenhand. In the thickpadofhispalmI could see twotinyobjects thatwereshapedlikeeggs.“Thelarvaeofthegods,”hesaidwithahintofaweinhisvoice.

Iturnedabruptlytothedoctor.“Thepillsyougaveme.”“Itwastheonlythingthatcouldbedoneforyou.I’vetriedsohardtohelp

youboth.”“I had suspected somethingwas up,” saidMr.Catch, now reviving himself

fromhisstupefaction.“Ishouldneverhavebroughtyouintothis.Don’tyourealizethat it’s difficult enoughwithout involving your own patients. The derelicts areone thing, but this is quite another. I’m sorry I ever involved you in mypredicament.Well,mysuitcasesarepacked.It’syouroperationnow,doctor.Letmeby,timetogo.”

Mr.Catchmaneuveredhimselffromtheroom,andafewmomentslaterthesoundofadoorbeingslammedechoedthroughoutthehouse.Thedoctorkeptclosewatchonme,waitingforsomereaction,Isuppose.Yethewasalsolisteningveryintently to certain sounds emanating from the rooms around us. The noise ofrestlessskitteringwaseverywhere.

“Youunderstand,don’tyou?”askedthedoctor.“Mr.Catchisn’ttheonlyonewhohaswaitedtoo long… far too long. I thoughtbynowthepillswouldhavehadtheireffect.”

IwentintomypocketandremovedthetwolittleeggswhichIhadfailedtoswallowearlier.“Ican’tclaimthatIhadmuchfaithinyourmethods,”Isaid.ThenItossedthepillsatDr.Dublancwho,speechless,caughtthem.“Youwon’tmindifIreturnhomebymyself.”

Indeed,hewasprobablyrelievedtoseemego.InthecourseoftreatingMr.Catch, the doctor had apparently also become a hideous degenerate, a whollyunbalanced specimen inneedof themost radical therapyhimself.As I tracedmywayback throughthehouse Iheardhimrunningaboutopeningdoorafterdoor,finally cryingoutwithapitifuldelight, “Thereyouare,youbeauties.Thereyouare.”

Althoughthedoctorhimselfnowseemedhopeless,Ithinkthathistherapeuticstrategy may have been somewhat beneficial in my case, or at least given me aglimpseofhowIcouldmeetthedemoniacundercurrentsofexistencehalfway.Forduringthosefirstfewmomentsonthathazymorning,whenthetaxiedgedoutofthe alley and passed through that neighborhood of deteriorating houses, I feltmyself attain the middle ground Dr. Dublanc spoke of—the balancing pointbetween an anxious flight from the abyss and the temptation to plunge into it.

Therewasagreatsenseofescape,asifIcouldexistserenelyoutsidethegrotesqueultimatumsofcreation,anentrancedspectatorcastingaclinicalgazeatthechaotictumultbotharoundandwithinhimself.

But the feeling soon evaporated. A genuine cure for the quandaries of aninconstantexistenceisexceedinglyrare.“Couldyougoalittlefaster?”Isaidtothedriver,foritseemedtomethatweweremakingnoprogressinourleavefromthatdistrict inwhich all order had dissipated.Things again appeared to be changing,readytoburstforthfromtheirsaggingcocoonsandtakeonuncertainforms.Eventhepalemorningsunseemedtobewaveringfromitsproperproportions.

Attheendoftheride,Iwascontenttopaytheextraordinaryfareandreturntomybed.ThefollowingdayIstartedlookingforanewdoctor.

TheVoice

ofthe

DREAMER

TheNightSchool

InstructorCarnierowasholdingclassonceagain.I discovered this fact onmy return from amovie theater. Itwas late and I

thought, “Why not take a short cut across the grounds of the school?” ThisthoughtledtoawholetrainofthoughtsthatIoftenpondered,especiallywhenIwasoutwalking atnight.Mainly these thoughtswere aboutmydesire to knowsomethingthatIwassurewasrealaboutmyexistence,somethingthatcouldhelpmeinmyexistencebeforeitwasmytimetodieandbeputintotheearthtorot,orperhapshavemycrematedremainsdriftoutofachimneystackandsullythesky.Of course, this desirewas by nomeans unique tome.Nonetheless, I had spentquite a fewyears,mywhole life it seemed, seeking to satisfy it in variousways.Most recently, I had sought some kind of satisfaction by attending the classes ofInstructorCarniero.ThoughIhadnotattendedhisclassesforverylong,heseemedto be someonewho could revealwhatwas at the bottom of things. Lost inmythoughts, then, I left the street I was walking along and proceeded across thegroundsoftheschool,whichwerevastanddark.Itwasquitecoldthatnight,andwhen I looked down the front of my overcoat I saw that the single remainingbutton holding it together had become loose and possibly would not last muchlonger. So a short cut onmy return from thatmovie theater appeared to be thewisemove.

Ienteredtheschoolgroundsas iftheywereonlyagreatpark locatedinthemidst of surrounding streets.The treeswere set close and from the perimeter ofthatparceloflandIcouldnotseetheschoolhiddenwithinthem.Lookuphere,IthoughtIheardsomeonesaytome.WhenIdidlookup,Isawthatthebranchesoverheadwerewithout leaves, and through their intertwiningmesh the skywasfullyvisible.Howbrightanddarkitwasatthesametime.Brightwithahigh,fullmoon shining among the spreading clouds, and darkwith the shadowsminglingwithin those clouds—a slowly flowingmassofmottled shapes, a kindofuncleanoutpouringfromtheblacksewersofspace.

I noticed that in one place these clouds were leaking down into the trees,tricklinginanarrowrivuletacrossthewallofthenight.Butitwasreallysmoke,

dense and dirty, rising up to the sky.A short distance ahead, andwell into thethicklywoodedgroundsoftheschool,Isawthespasticflamesofasmallfireamongthetrees.Bythesmell,Iguessedthatsomeonewasburningrefuse.ThenIcouldseethe misshapen metal drum spewing smoke, and the figures standing behind thefirelightbecamevisibletome,asIwastothem.

“Classhasresumed,”oneofthemcalledout.“He’scomebackafterall.”I knew these were others from the school, but their faces would not hold

steady in the flickering light of the fire that warmed them. They seemed to besmudgedbythesmoke,greasedbytheodorousgarbageburninginthatdarkmetaldrum,itsoutersurfacealmostglowingfromtheheatandflakingoffinplaces.

“Look there,” said another member of the group, pointing deeper into theschoolgrounds.Themassiveoutlineofabuildingoccupiedthedistance,afewofitswindows sending a dim light through the trees. From the roof of the building anumberofsmokestacksstoodoutagainstthepalesky.

Awindroseup.Itdronednoisilyaroundusandbreathedacracklinglifeintothefireinthedecayedmetaldrum.Itriedtoshoutabovetheconfusionofsounds.“Was there an assignment?” I cried out. But they appeared not to hear me, orperhaps were ignoring my words. When I repeated the question they brieflyglancedmyway,as ifIhadsaidsomethingimproper.I leftthemhunchedaroundthefire,assumingtheywouldbealong.Thewinddied,andIcouldhearsomeonesaytheword“maniac,”whichwasnotspoken,Irealized,eithertomeoraboutme.

InstructorCarniero, in his person,was rather vague tomymind. I hadnotbeeninhisclassverylongbeforesomedisease—aterriblyseriousaffliction,oneofmyfellowstudentshinted—hadcausedhisabsence.Sowhatremained,forme,wasnomorethantheimageofaslendergentlemaninadarksuit,agentlemanwithadarkish complexion andavoice thickwith a foreign accent. “He’s aPortuguese,”someonetoldme.“Buthe’s livedalmosteverywhere.”AndIrecalledaparticularphraseofreproofheusedtosingleoutthoseofuswhohadnotbeenattendingtothe diagrams hewas incessantly creating on the blackboard. “Look up here,” hewouldsay.“Ifyoudonot look,youwill learnnothing—youwillbenothing.”A

fewmembersoftheclassneverneededtobecalledtoattentioninthismanner,acertainsmallgroupwhohadbeenlongtimestudentsoftheinstructorandwithoutdistraction scrutinized theunceasing seriesofdiagramshewoulddesignupon theblackboardandthenerase,onlytoconstructagain,withslightvariation,amomentlater.

AlthoughIcannotclaimthattheseoftencomplexdiagramswerenotdirectlyrelatedtoourstudies,therewerealwaysextraneouselementswithinthemwhichIneverbotheredtotranscribeintomyownnotesfortheclass.Theywereastrangearrayofabstractsymbols,frequentlygeometricfiguresalteredinsomeway:variouspolygonswithasymmetricalsides,trapezoidswhosesidesdidnotmeet,semicircleswithdoubleortripleslashesacrossthem,andmanyotherexamplesofadeformedor corrupted scientific notation.These signs appeared to be primitive in essence,more relevant to magic than mathematics. The instructor marked them in anextremelyrapidhandupontheblackboard,asiftheywerethewordsofhisnaturallanguage. Inmost cases they formed aborder around a familiar diagramallied tochemistryorphysics,enclosingitandsometimes,itseemed,transformingitssense.Onceastudentquestionedhimregardingwhatseemedhisapparentlysuperfluousembellishmentofthesediagrams.WhydidInstructorCarnierosubjectustothesebewildering symbols? “Because,” he answered, “a true instructor must shareeverything,nomatterhowterribleorluriditmightbe.”

AsIproceededacrossthegroundsoftheschool,Inoticedcertainchangesinmysurroundings.Thetreesnearertotheschoollookeddifferentfromthoseintheencompassingarea.Theseweresomuchthinner,emaciatedandtwistedlikebrokenbonesthathadneverhealedproperly.Andtheirbarkseemedtobepeelingawayinsoft layers,because itwasnotonlyfallen leavesItrudgedthroughonmywaytothe school building, but also something like dark rags, strips of decomposedmaterial.Eventhecloudsuponwhichthemooncastitsglowwerethinorrotted,unraveledbysomeprocessofdegenerationinthehighestatmosphereoftheschoolgrounds.Therewasalsoascentofcorruption,anenchantingfragrancereally—likethemulchyrotofautumnorearlyspring—thatIthoughtwasemergingfromthe

earth as I disturbed the strange litter strewn over it. This odor became morepungentasIapproachedtheyellowishlightoftheschool,andstrongestasIfinallyreachedtheoldbuildingitself.

It was a four-story structure of dark scabby bricks that had been patchedtogetherinanotherera,atimesodifferentthatitmightbeimaginedasbelongingtoan entirely alien history, one composed solely of nights well advanced, an after-hours history. How difficult it was to think of this place as if it had beenconstructed intheusualmanner.Fareasier tocredit somefantastic legendthat ithadbeenerectedbyaconsortofdemonsduringtheperpetualnightofitspast,andthatitsmaterialswerepilferedfromotherarchitectures,allofthemdefunct:ruinedfactories, ravaged mausoleums, abandoned orphanages, penitentiaries long out ofuse. The school was indeed a kind of freakish growth in a dumping ground, ablossomofthecemeteryorthecesspool.HereitwasthatInstructorCarniero,whohadbeeneverywhere,heldhisclass.

Onthe lower floorsof thebuildinganumberof lightswere inuse,weakasguttering candles.The highest storywas blacked out, andmany of thewindowswerebroken.Nevertheless, therewassufficient lighttoguideme intotheschool,evenifthemainhallwaycouldhardlybeseentoitsend.Anditswallsappearedtobe tarredoverwith somethingwhichexuded the same smell that filled thenightoutsidetheschool.Withouttouchingthesewalls,Iusedthemtonavigatemywayintotheschool,followingseveralofthegreaterandlesserhallwaysthatburrowedthroughout the building. Room after room passed on either side of me, theirdoorways filled with darkness or sealed by wide wooden doors whose coarsesurfaceswerepockedandpeeling.EventuallyIfoundaclassroomwherealightwason,thoughitwasnobrighterthantheswarthyilluminationofthehallway.

WhenIenteredtheroomIsawthatonlysomeofthelampswerefunctioning,leavingcertainareasindarknesswhileothersweresmearedwiththekindofgreasyglowpeculiartooldpaintingsinoil.Afewstudentswereseatedatdeskshereandthere,isolatedfromoneanotherandsilent.Bynomeanswasthereafullclass,andnoinstructorstoodatthelectern.Theblackboarddisplayednonewdiagramsbut

only theblurredremnantsofpast lessons. I tookadesknear thedoor, lookingatnoneoftheothersastheydidnotlookatme.InoneofthepocketsofmyovercoatIturnedupa little stubofapencilbutcould findnothingonwhichto takenotes.Without anydramatic gestures, I scanned the room for somekindof paper.Thevisibleareasoftheroomfeaturedvariousitemsofdebriswithoutofferinganythingthatwouldallowmetotranscribethecomplexinstructionsanddiagramsdemandedbytheclass. Iwas reluctant tomakeaphysical searchof the shelves set into thewall beside me because they were very deep and from them drifted that headyfragranceofdecay.

Tworows tomy left sat amanwith several thicknotebooks stackedonhisdesk.His handswere resting lightly on these notebooks, and his spectacled eyeswerefixedontheemptylectern,orperhapsontheblackboardbeyond.Thespacebetween the rows of desks was very narrow, so I was able to lean across theunoccupied desk that separated us and speak to thismanwho seemed to have asurplusofpaperonwhichonecouldtakenotes,transcribediagrams,and,inshort,dowhateverscribblingwasdemandedbytheinstructoroftheclass.

“Pardonme,”Iwhisperedtothestaringfigure.Inasingle,suddenmovement,his head turned to face me. I remembered his pitted complexion, which hadobviouslygrownworsesinceourclasslastmet,andtheeyesthatsquintedbehindheavylenses.“Doyouhaveanypaperyoucouldsharewithme?”Iasked,andwassomehow surprised when he shifted his head toward his notebooks and beganleafing through the pages of the topmost one. As he performed this action, Iexplainedthat Iwasunprepared for theclass, thatonlya short timebeforedid Ilearnithadresumed.Thishappenedentirelybychance,Isaid.Iwascominghomefromamovietheateranddecidedtotakeashortcutacrosstheschoolgrounds.

By the time Iwas finished illuminatingmy situation, the other studentwassearching through his last notebook, the pages ofwhichwere as solidly coveredwith jottings and diagrams as the previous ones. I observed that his notesweredifferentfromthoseIhadbeentakingforInstructorCarniero’scourse.Theywerefarmoredetailedandscrupulousintheirtranscriptionsofthosestrangegeometric

figureswhichIconsideredonlyasdecorativeintrusionsintheinstructor’sdiagrams.Someof theother students’notebookpageswerewhollygivenover to renderingthesefiguresandsymbolstotheexclusionofthediagramsthemselves.

“I’msorry,”hesaid.“Idon’tseemtohaveanypaperIcouldsharewithyou.”“Well,couldyoutellmeiftherewasanassignment?”“That’s very possible. You can never tell with this instructor. He’s a

Portuguese,youknow.Buthe’sbeenalloverandknowseverything. I thinkhe’soutofhismind.Thekindofthinghe’sbeenteachingshouldhavegottenhimintotrouble somewhere, andprobablydid.Not thathe ever caredwhathappened tohim,ortoanyoneelse.Thatis,thosethathecouldinfluence,andsomemorethanothers.Thethingshesaidtous.Thelessonsinmeasurementofcloacalforces.Timeasaflowofsewage.Theexcrementofspace,scatologyofcreation.Thevoidingofthe self.Thewhole filthy integration of things and the nocturnal product, as hecalledit,drowninginthepoolsofnight.”

“I’mafraidIdon’trecallthoseconcepts,”Iconfessed.“You’re new to the class. To tell the truth, you don’t seem to understand

whattheinstructoristeaching.Butsoonenoughhewillgetthroughtoyou,ifhehasn’t already. You can never know.He’s very captivating, the instructor.Andalwaysreadyforanything.”

“Iwastoldthatherecovered fromthesickness thatcausedhisabsence,andthathewasbackteaching.”

“Oh, he’s back.Hewas always ready.Did you know that the class is nowbeing held in another part of the school? I couldn’t tell youwhere, since even Ihaven’t beenwith InstructorCarniero as long as someof the others.To tell thetruth, I don’t carewhere it’s being held. Isn’t it enough thatwe’re here, in thisroom?”

Ihadlittleideahowtoanswerthisquestionandunderstoodalmostnothingofwhatthemanhadbeentryingtoexplaintome.Itdidseemclear,oratleastverypossible, that the classhadmoved toadifferentpartof the school.But Ihadnoreasontothinkthattheotherstudentsseatedelsewhereintheroomwouldbeany

morehelpfulon thispoint than theonewhohadnowturnedhis spectacled faceawayfromme.Wherevertheclasswasbeingheld,Iwasstillinneedofpaperonwhich to take notes, transcribe diagrams, and so forth. This could not beaccomplished by staying in that room where everyone and everything wasdegeneratingintothesurroundingdarkness.

For a time Iwandered about the hallways on themain floor of the school,keepingclearof thewallswhichcertainlywerethickeningwithadarksubstance,anodoroussapwiththeintoxicatingpotencyofathousandmoltingautumnsorthemeltingsoilofspring.Thestuffwasrunningfromtoptobottomdownthewalls,leakingfromaboveanddullingthealreadydimlightinthehallways.

IbegantohearechoingvoicescomingfromadistantpartoftheschoolIhadnever visited before.Nowordswere decipherable, but it sounded as if the sameoneswere being repeated in amore or less constant succession of cries that ranghollow in the halls. I followed them and along the way met up with someonewalkingslowlyfromtheoppositedirection.Hewasdressed indirtyworkclothesandalmostblendedinwiththeshadowswhichweresoabundantintheschoolthatnight. I stopped him as he was about to shuffle straight past me. Turning anindifferentgazeinmydirectionwasapairofyellowisheyessetinathinfacewithacoarse,patchycomplexion.Themanscratchedatthe leftsideofhis foreheadandsomedryflakesofskinfellaway.Iaskedhim:

“CouldyoutellmewhereInstructorCarnieroisholdingclasstonight?”Helookedatmeforsomemoments,andthenpointedafingerattheceiling.

“Upthere,”hesaid.“Lookupthere.”“Onwhichfloor?”“Thetopone,”heanswered,asifalittleamazedatmyignorance.“Therearealotofroomsonthatfloor,”Isaid.“Andeveryoneofthemishis.Nothingtobedoneaboutthat.ButIhaveto

keeptherestofthisplaceinsomekindofcondition.Idon’tseehowIcandothatwith him up there.”Theman glanced around at the stainedwalls and let out asingle,wheezing laugh.“Itonlygetsworse.Starts toget toyou ifyougoupany

further.Listen.Heartherestofthem?”Thenhegroanedwithdisgustandwentonhisway.

ButbythatpointIfeltthatanyknowledgeIhadamassed—whetherornotitconcerned InstructorCarnieroandhisnight classes—wasbeing takenaway frommepiecebypiece.Themanindirtyworkclotheshaddirectedmetothetopfloorof the school. Yet I remembered seeing no light on that floor when I firstapproachedthebuilding.Theonlythingthatseemedtooccupythatfloorwasanundiluted darkness, a darkness far greater than the night itself, a consolidateddarkness,somethingclottedwithitsowndensity.“Thenocturnalproduct,”Icouldhearthespectacledstudentremindingmeinahollowvoice.“Drowninginthepoolsofnight.”

What could I know about the ways of the school? I had not been inattendanceverylong,notnearlylongenough,itseemed.Ifeltmyselfastrangertomyfellowstudents,especiallysincetheyrevealedthemselvestobedividedintheirranks, as though among the degrees of a secret society. I did not know thecourseworkinthewaysomeoftheothersseemedtoknowitandinthespiritthatthe instructor intended it to be known. My turn had not yet come to becommandedbyInstructorCarnierotolookupatthehieroglyphsontheblackboardandcomprehendthemfully.SoIdidnotunderstandthedoctrinesofatrulysepticcurriculum,thescienceofaspectralpathology,philosophyofabsolutedisease,themetaphysics of things sinking into a common disintegration or rising together,flowingtogether,intheirdarkrottenness.Aboveall,Ididnotknowtheinstructorhimself: the places he had been… the things he had seen and done . . . theexperienceshehadembraced… the lawshehad ignored… the troubleshehadcaused…thefatethathehadincurred,gladly,uponhimselfandothers.

I was now close to a shaft of stairways leading to the upper floors of theschool.Thevoices became louder, thoughnotmore distinct, as I approached thestairwell.Thefirstflightofstairsseemedverylongandsteep,nottomentionbadlydefined in thedim lightof thehallway.The landing at the topof the stairswasbarely visible for the poor light and unreflecting effluvia that here moved even

morethicklydownthewalls.Butitdidnotappeartopossessanyrealsubstance,nostickysurfaceorviscoustextureasonemighthavesupposed,onlyakindofdensitylike heavy smoke, filthy smoke from some smoldering source of expansivecorruption.Anditcarriedthescentofcorruptionaswellasthesight,onlynowitwas more potent with the nostalgic perfume of autumn decay or the feculentmuskinessofaspringthaw.

I climbed another flight of stairs, which ascended in the opposite directionfromthefirst,andreachedthesecondfloor.Eachofthefourstoriesoftheschoolhadtwoflightsofstairsgoinginoppositedirectionsbetweenthem,withanarrowlandingthat intervenedbeforeonecouldcompletetheascenttoanewfloor.Thesecond floorwas not aswell-lighted as the one below, and thewalls therewereevenworse:theirsurfacehadbeenwhollyobscuredbythatsmokyblacknesswhichseepeddownfromabove,theblacknesssorichlyodorouswiththeoffalofworldsindeclineorperhapswiththedarkcompostofthoseabouttobeborn,theprimevalimpurityinwhichallthingsarefounded,thenativeputridity.

OnthestairsthatleduptothethirdfloorIsawthefirstofthem—ayoungmanwhowasseatedonthelowerstepsofthisflightandwhohadbeenoneoftheinstructor’smostassiduousstudents.HewasabsorbedinhisownthoughtsanddidnotacknowledgemeuntilIspoketohim.

“Theclass?”Isaid,stressingthewordsintoaquestion.He gazed at me calmly. “The instructor suffered a terrible disease, a

monumentaldisease.”Thiswas all he said.Thenhe returnedwithinhimself andwouldnotrespond.

Therewereotherssimilarlypositionedhigheronthestairsorsquattingonthelanding.Thevoiceswerestillechoinginthestairwell,chantingablurredphraseinunison.Butthevoicesdidnotbelongtoanyofthesestudents,whosatsilentandentrancedamidthescatteredpagestornfromtheirvoluminousnotebooks.Piecesofpaper with strange symbols on them lay scattered everywhere like fallen leaves.They rustled as Iwalked through them toward the stairs leading to the higheststoryoftheschool.

Thewalls in the stairwellwerenow swollenwith ablackness thatwas theveryfaceofaplague—pustulant,scabbed,andstinkingterribly.Itwasreachingtotheedgesof the floor,where itdriftedandchurned likeablack fog.Only in themoonlightthatshonethroughahallwaywindowcouldIseeanythingofthethirdfloor. I stoppedthere, for the stairs to the fourthweredeep inblackness.Onlyafewfacesroseaboveitandwerevisibleinthemoonlight.Oneofthemwasstaringatme,and,withoutprompting,spoke.

“The instructor is holding class again despite his terrible disease. Can youimagine?He is able to suffer anythingandhasbeeneverywhere.Nowhe is in anewplace, somewhere he has not been.”The voice paused and the intervalwasfilledbythemanyvoicescallingandcryingfromthetotalblacknessthatprevailedover the heights of the stairwell and buried everything beneath it like tightlypacked earth in a grave. Then the single voice said: “The instructor died in thenight.Yousee?Heiswiththenight.Youhearthevoices?Theyarewithhim.Andhe is with the night. The night has spread itself within him.Hewho has beeneverywheremaygoanywherewiththediseaseofthenight.Listen.ThePortugueseiscallingtous.”

Ilistenedandfinallythevoicesbecameclear.Lookuphere,theysaid.Lookuphere.

The fogof blacknesshadnowunfurleddown tome and lay aboutmy feet,gathering there and rising. For a time I could not move or speak or form anythoughts. Insidemeeverythingwasbecomingblack.Theblacknesswasquiveringinmybones,eatingawayatthem,makingeverythingblackwithinmybody.Itwasholdingme,andthevoicesweresaying,“Lookuphere,lookuphere.”AndIbegantolook.ButIabortedmygesturebeforeitwascompleted.Iwasalreadytoocloseto something I could not endure, that I was not prepared to endure. Even theblacknessquiveringinsidemecouldnotgoontoitsend.IcouldnotremainwhereIwasnorlookuptotheplacewherethevoicescalledouttome.

Thentheblacknessseemedtoexudefrommybeing,washingitselfoutofme,and Iwas no longer inside the school but outside it, almost as if I had suddenly

awakenedthere.Without lookingback, I retracedmystepsacross thegroundsoftheschool,forgettingabouttheshortcutIhadmeanttotakethatnight.Ipassedthose students who were still standing around the fire burning in an old metaldrum.Theywerefeedingthebrightflameswithpagesfromtheirnotebooks,pagesscribbled to blackness with all those diagrams and freakish signs. Some of thoseamong the group called out to me. “Did you see the Portuguese?” one of themshoutedabovethenoiseofthefireandthewind.“Didyouhearanythingaboutanassignment?”anothervoicecriedout.Andthen Iheard themall laughingamongthemselves as I mademyway back to the streets I had left before entering theschool grounds. I movedwith such haste that the loose button on my overcoatfinallycameoffbythetimeIreachedthestreetoutsidethegroundsoftheschool.

AsIwalkedbeneaththestreetlights,Iheldthefrontofmyovercoattogetherand tried to keepmy eyes on the sidewalk beforeme. But Imight have heard avoicebidme,“Lookuphere,”becauseIdidlook,ifonlyforamoment.ThenIsawtheskywasclearofall clouds,andthe fullmoonwas shining in theblack spacesabove.Itwasshiningbrightandblurry,asifcoatedwithaluminousmold,floatinglike a lamp in the great sewers of the night. The nocturnal product, I thought,drowning in the pools of night. But these were only words I repeated withoutunderstanding.Mydesire toknowsomething that Iwas surewas real aboutmyexistence,somethingthatcouldhelpme inmyexistencebefore itwasmytimetodieandbeputintotheearthtorot,orperhapshavemycrematedremainsdriftoutofachimneystackandsullythesky—thatwouldneverbefulfilled.Ihadlearnednothing, and Iwasnothing.Yet insteadofdisappointmentatmy failure to fulfillmymostintensedesire,Ifeltatremendousrelief.Theurgetoknowthefundamentofthingswasnowemptiedfromme,andIwasmorethancontenttoberidofit.ThefollowingnightIwenttothemovietheateragain.ButIdidnottakeashortcuthome.

TheGlamour

It had long beenmy practice towander late at night and often to attendmovietheatersatthistime.ButsomethingelsewasinvolvedonthenightIwenttothattheater inapartoftownIhadnevervisitedbefore.Anewtendency,amoodorpenchant formerlyunknowntome, seemedto leadtheway.Howdifficult tosayanythingpreciseaboutthismoodthatovercameme,becauseitseemedtobelongtomy surroundings asmuch as tomy self.As I advanced farther into that part oftown I had never visited before,my attentionwas drawn to a certain aspect ofthings—afineauraof fantasyradiating fromthemostcommonsights,placesandobjectsthatwerebothblurredandbrightenedinmygaze.

Despitethelatenessofthehour,therewasanactiveglowcastthroughmanyof the shopwindows I passed.Along one particular avenue, the starless eveningwasglazedbytheselights,thesediamondsofplateglasssetwithinoldbuildingsofdarkbrick.Ipausedbeforethedisplaywindowofatoystoreandwasentrancedbya chaotic tableau of preposterous excitation.My eyes followed several things atonce: the fated antics of mechanized monkeys that clapped tiny cymbals orsomersaulted uncontrollably; the destined pirouettes of amusic-box ballerina; thegrotesquewobblingofanewlysprungjack-in-the-box.TheinsideofthestorewasaChristmas-tree clutter of merchandise receding into a background that lookedshadowed and empty. An old man with a smooth pate and angular eyebrowsstepped forward to the frontwindow and began rewinding some of the toys tokeeptheminceaselessgyration.Whileperformingthistaskhesuddenlylookedupatme,hisfaceexpressionless.

I moved down the street, where other windows framed little worlds sostrangely picturesque and so dreamily illuminated in the shabby darkness of thatpartof town.Oneof themwasabakerywhosewindowdisplaywasagalleryofsculptured frosting, a winter landscape of swirling, drifting whiteness, of snowyrosettesandlayersoficyglitter.Atthecenteroftheglacialkingdomwasapairofminiaturepeoplefrozenatopamany-tieredweddingcake.ButbeyondthebrilliantarcticsceneIsawonlythedeepblacknessofanestablishmentthatwasclosedforthenight. Standing outside anotherwindownearby, Iwasuncertain if the place

wasopenforbusinessornot.Inthebackground,afewfigureswerepositionedhereandtherewithinfadedlightingreminiscentofanoldphotograph,thoughitseemedtheywere beings of the same kind as thewindow dummies of this store,whichapparentlytraffickedindatedstylesofclothing.Eventhefacesofthemanikins,asaglossy light fellupon them,wore theplacidly enigmatic expressionsof adifferenttime.

IsawnooneenterorexitthemanydoorsalongthesidewalkswhereIstrolledthatnight.Acanvasawningthatsomeproprietorhadneglectedtorollupforthenightwasflappinginthewind.Nevertheless,asIhavedescribed,therereignedavitalityofenterpriseeverywhereIlooked,andIfeltthekindofacuteanticipationthat a child might experience at a carnival, where each lurid attraction incitesfantastic speculations,while unexpecteddesires arise for somethingwhichhas nospecificqualitiesintheimaginationyetseemstobeonlyafewstepsaway.Thusmymoodhadnotabandonedmebutonlygrewstronger,apossessingimpulsewithoutobject.

Then I saw themarquee for amovie theater, thoughnotone I intended topatronize. For the letters spelling out the name of the theater were broken andunreadable,whilethetitleonthemarqueewassimilarlydamaged,asifstoneshadbeen thrown at it, a series of attempts made to efface the words that I finallydeciphered.ThefeaturebeingadvertisedwascalledTheGlamour.

WhenIreachedthefrontofthetheaterIfoundthattherowofdoorsformingthe entrance had been barricaded by crosswise planks with notices posted uponthemwarningthatthebuildinghadbeencondemned.Thisactionwasapparentlytakensometimeago,judgingbytheweatheredconditionoftheboardsthatblockedmywayandthedatedappearanceofthenoticesstuckuponthem.AsIwasaboutto proceed on my way, however, I saw that the marquee was illuminated,wretchedly aglowwith a light that I previously thoughtwas a reflection from anearbystreetlamp.ItwasbeneaththissamestreetlampthatInownoticedadouble-faced sign propped up on the sidewalk, an inconspicuous little board that read:ENTRANCETOTHETHEATER.Beneaththesewordswasanarrowpointing

intoanalleywaywhichseparatedthetheaterfromtheremainingbuildingsontheblock.Peekingintothisdarkopening,thisapertureintheotherwisesolidfacadeofthatparticularstreet,Isawonlyalong,narrowcorridorwithasinglelightsetfarintoitsdepths.Thelightshonewithastrangeshadeofpurple,likethatofafreshlyexposed heart, and appeared to be positioned over a doorway leading into thetheater.Ithadlongbeenmypracticetoattendlateperformancesatmovietheaters—thisiswhatIremindedmyself.ButwhateverreservationsIfeltatthetimewereeasilyovercomebyanewsurgeofthemoodIwasexperiencingthatnightinapartoftownIhadnevervisitedbefore.

Thepurple lampdid indeedmarkaway into the theater, casting itsarteriallight upon a door that reiterated the word “ENTRANCE.” Stepping inside, Ienteredatighthallwaywherethewallsglowedadeeppink,verysimilarintinttothatlittlebeaconinthealleybutmorereminiscentofarichlybloodedbrainthanabeating heart. At the end of the hallway I could see my reflection in a ticketwindow,andapproaching it Inoticedthatthosewallssoclosetomewereveiledfrom floor to ceilingwithwhat appeared to be cobwebs.This gossamermaterialwasalsostrewnuponthecarpetleadingtotheticketwindow,wispyshroudsthatdidnotscatterwhenIwalkedoverthem,asiftheyhadsecurelyboundthemselvestothecarpet’swornandshallowfiber,orweretightlycombedintoit,sparsehairsstickingtothescalpofanoldcorpse.

Therewasnoonebehindtheticketwindow,nooneIcouldseeinthatsmallspaceofdarknessbeyondtheblurofpurple-tintedglassinwhichmyreflectionwasheld.Nevertheless, a ticketwas protruding from a slot beneath the semi-circularcutawayatthebottomofthewindow,stickingoutlikeapapertongue.Afewhairslaybesideit.

“Admissionisfree,”saidamanwhowasnowstandinginthedoorwaybesidetheticketbooth.Hissuitwaswell-fittedandneat,buthisfaceappearedsomehowamess,bristlingoverallitscontours.Histonewaspolite,evenpassive,whenhesaid,“Thetheaterisundernewownership.”

“Areyouthemanager?”Iasked.

“Iwasjustonmywaytotherestroom.”Withoutfurthercommenthedriftedoffintothedarknessofthetheater.Fora

momentsomethingfloatedintheemptyspaceheleftinthedoorway—aswarmoffilamentslikedustthatscatteredorsettledbeforeIsteppedthrough.Andinthosefirstfewsecondsinside,allIcouldseewerethewords“restroom”glowingaboveadoorasitslowlyclosed.

Imaneuveredwith cautionuntilmy sightbecame sufficient to thedarkandallowedmetofindadoorleadingtotheauditoriumofthemovietheater.Butonceinside, as I stood at the summit of a sloping aisle, all previous orientation tomysurroundings underwent a setback. The room was illuminated by an elaboratechandeliercenteredhighabovethefloor,aswellasaseriesof light fixturesalongeitherofthesidewalls.Iwasnotsurprisedbythedimnessofthelightingnorbyitshue,whichmade shadows appear faintly bloodshot—a sickly, liverish shade thatmightbewitnessedinanoperatingroomwhereatorso liesopenonthetable, itsentrailsapaletteofpinksandredsandpurples…diseasedvisceraimitatingalltheshadesofsunset.

However,myperceptionofthetheaterauditoriumremainedproblematicnotbecauseofanyodditiesofilluminationbutforanotherreason.WhileIexperiencedno difficulty inmentally registering the elements aroundme—the separate aislesandrowsofseats,thecurtain-flankedmoviescreen,thewell-notedchandelierandwalllights—itseemedimpossibletogainasenseofthesefeaturesinsimpleaccordwith their appearances. I saw nothing that I have not described, yet the round-backed seatswere at the same time rowsofheadstones in a graveyard; the aisleswereendlessfilthyalleys,longdesolatecorridorsinanoldasylum,orthedrippingpassagesofasewernarrowingintothedistance;thepalemoviescreenwasadust-blindedwindow in a darkunvisited cellar, amirror gone rheumywith age in anabandoned house; the chandelier and smaller fixtures were the facets of murkycrystalsembeddedintheclammywallsofanunknowncavern.Inotherwords,thismovie theaterwasmerelyavirtual image, aveilupona complex collageofotherplaces,allofwhichsharedcertainqualitiesthatwereprojected intomyvision,as

thoughthethingsIsawwerepossessedbysomethingIcouldnotsee.ButasIlingeredinthetheaterauditorium,settlinginaseattowardtheback

wall, I realized that even on the level of plain appearances therewas a peculiarphenomenon I had not formerly observed, or at least had yet to perceive to itsfullestextent.Iamspeakingofthecobwebs.

When I first entered the theater I saw them clinging to the walls andcarpeting.NowI sawhowmuchtheywereapartof the theaterandhowIhadmistaken the nature of these long pale threads. Even in the hazy purple light, Icoulddiscern that theyhadpenetrated into the fabricof the seats in the theater,alteringtheweaveinitsdepthsandgivingitaslightqualityofmovement,theslowcurlingofthinsmoke.Itseemedthesamewiththemoviescreen,whichmighthavebeenagreatrectangularweb,denselywovenandfaintlyinmotion,vibratingatthetouchofsomeunseenforce.Ithought:“Perhapsthissubtleandpervasivewrigglingwithinthetheatermayclarifythetendencyofitselementstosuggestotherthingsand other places thoroughly unlike a simple auditorium, a process parallel to theever-mutating images of clouds.” All textures in the theater appeared similarlyaffected,withoutcontrolovertheirownnature,butIcouldnotclearlyseeashighas the chandelier.Even someof theothers in the audience,whichwas small andwidelyscattered,werepracticallyinvisibletomyeyes.

Furthermore, theremayhavebeen something inmymood thatnight, givenmysojourninapartoftownIhadnevervisitedbefore,thatinfluencedwhatIwasabletosee.AndthismoodhadbecomesteadilyenhancedsinceIfirststeppedintothetheater,andindeedfromthemomentIlookeduponthemarqueeadvertisingafeatureentitledTheGlamour.Havingtakenmyplaceamongthequietlyexpectantaudienceofthetheater,Ibegantosufferanexacerbationofthismood.Specifically,Isensedagreaterproximitytothepointoffocusformymoodthatnight,atinglingcloseness to something quite literally behind the scene. Increasingly I becameunconcernedwithanythingexcepttheconsummationorterminusofthisabjectandenchanting adventure. Consequences were evermore difficult to regard from mytaintedperspective.

ThereforeIwasnothesitantwhenthisfocalpointformymoodsuddenlyfeltsonearathand,ascloseastheseatdirectlybehindmyown.Iwasquitesurethisseat had been empty when I selected mine, that all the seats for several rowsaroundmewereunoccupied.AndIwouldhavebeenawareifsomeonehadarrivedtofillthisseatdirectlybehindme.Nevertheless,likeasuddenchillannouncingbadweather, therewasnowadefinite presence I could feel atmyback, a force thatpressed itself upon me and inspired a surge of dark elation. But when I lookedaround,notquicklyyetfullydetermined,Isawnooccupantintheseatbehindme,orinanyseatbetweenmeandthebackwallofthetheater.Icontinuedtostareatthe empty seat becausemy sensation of a vibrant presence therewas unrelieved.And inmy staring I perceived that the fabric of the seat, the innerwebbing ofswirlingfibers,hadcomposedapatternintheimageofaface—anoldwoman’sfacewith an expression of avid malignance—floating amidst wild shocks of twistinghair.Thefaceitselfwasaportraitofatrocity,agrinningimageoflustforsitesandceremonies of mayhem. And it was formed of those hairs stitching themselvestogether.

Allthestringy,writhingcobwebsofthattheater,asInowdiscovered,werethereachingtendrilsofavastnettingofhairs.Andinthisdiscoverymymoodoftheevening,whichhaddeliveredmetoapartoftownIhadnevervisitedbeforeandtothatverytheater,onlybecamemoreexpansiveanddefined,takinginscenesofgraveyardsandalleyways,reekingsewersandmustycorridorsofinsanityaswellastheimmediatevisionofanoldtheaterthatnow,asIhadbeentold,wasundernewownership.Butmymoodabruptlyfaded,alongwiththefaceinthefabricofthetheaterseat,whenavoicespoketome.Itsaid:

“Youmusthaveseenher,bythelooksofyou.”Amansatdownoneseatawayfrommine.ItwasnotthesamepersonIhad

metearlier; thisone’s facewasnearlynormal,althoughhis suitwas litteredwithhairthatwasnothisown.

“Sodidyouseeher?”heasked.“I’mnotsurewhatIsaw,”Ireplied.

Heseemedalmosttoburstoutgiggling,hisvoicetremblingontheedgeofajoyoushysteria.“Youwouldbesureenoughiftherehadbeenaprivateencounter,Icantellyou.”

“Somethingwashappening,thenyousatdown.”“Sorry,” he said. “Did you know that the theater has just come under new

ownership?”“Ididn’tnoticewhattheshowtimesare.”“Showtimes?”“Forthefeature.”“Oh,thereisn’tanyfeature.Notassuch.”“Buttheremustbe…something,”Iinsisted.“Yes,there’ssomething,”herepliedexcitedly,hisfingersstrokinghischeek.“What,exactly?Andthesecobwebs…”But the lightswere going down into darkness. “Quiet now,” hewhispered.

“It’sabouttobegin.”Soon the screen before us glowed a pale purple in the blackness and vague

imagesunaccompaniedbysoundbegantotakeformuponit,asifalenswerebeingfocusedonamicroscopicworld.Tobe sure, themovie screenmighthavebeenagreatglassslideuponwhichwereprojectedtogiganticproportionsalandscapeoforganisms normally hidden from our sight. But as these visions coalesced andclarified,IrecognizedthemassomethingIhadalreadyseen,moreaccuratelysensed,inthattheater.Theimageswereappearingonthescreenasifapairofdisembodiedeyeswasmovingwithinvenuesofprofoundmorbidityanddegeneration.HerewasthepurestessenceofthoseplacesIhadfeltweresuperimposingthemselvesonthegenuinelytangibleaspectsofthetheater—thosegraveyards,alleys,grimycorridors,andsubterraneanpassageswhosespirithadintrudedonanotherlocaleandalteredit. Yet the places now revealed on themovie screenwerewithout an identity Icouldname:theywerethefundamentofthesinisterandseamyregionswhichcasttheir spectral ambiance on the reality of the theater butwhichwere themselvesmerelytheshadows,thesuperficialcounterparts,ofadeeper,moreobscurerealm.

Fartherandfartherintoitwewerebeingtaken.Theall-pervasivepurplecolorationcouldnowbeseenasemanatingfromthe

labyrinth of a living anatomy: a compound of the reddish, bluish, palest pinkstructures,allofthemmorbidlyinflamedandlesionedtoreleaseapurplelight.Wewerebeingguidedthroughacatacombofputridchambersandcloisters,themostsecretedwaysandwaysidesof an infernal land.Whatever these spacesmayoncehave been, they were now habitations for ceremonies of a private sabbat. Thehollowsintheirfleshy,gelatinousintegumentsstreamedwithsomethinglikemoss,a fungus in flimsy strands thatwere threading themselves into translucent tissueand quivering beneath it like veins. Itwas indeed the sabbat ground, secret andunconsecrated,butitwasalsothetheaterofamadsurgery.Thehair-thinsuturesstitchedamongtheyieldingentrails,unseenhandsdesigningunnaturalshapesandsystems,weavinganestinwhichthepossessionwouldtakeplace,awebwhereinthebitsandpiecesoftheanatomycouldbeconsumedatleisure.Thereseemedtobenooneinsight,yeteverythingwasscrutinizedfromanintimateperspective,theviewpoint of that invisible surgeon, theweaver andweb-maker, the old puppet-masterwhowassettingahelplesscreaturewithnewstringsandplacinghimunderthecontrolofanewowner.Andthroughhereyes, entranced,wewitnessed theworkbeingdone.

Then those eyes began towithdraw, and the purpleworld of the organismrecededintopurpleshadows.Whentheeyesfinallyemergedfromwheretheyhadbeen, the movie screen was filled with the face and naked chest of a man. Hisposture was rigid, betraying a state of paralysis, and his eyes were fixed, yetstrikinglyalive.“She’sshowingus,”whisperedthemanwhowassittingnearbyme.“Shehastakenhim.Hecannotfeelwhoheisanylonger,onlyherpresencewithinhim.”

Thisstatement,atfirstsightofthepossessed,seemedtobethecase.Certainlysuchaviewof the situationprovideda terrific stimulus tomyownmoodof theevening,urging it toward culmination in a typeofdegraded rapture, a seizure ofdebauchedpanic.Nonetheless,asIstaredatthefaceofthemanonthescreen,he

becameknowntomeastheoneIencounteredinthevestibuleofthetheater.Therecognitionwasdifficult,however,becausehisfleshwasnowevenmoreobscuredbythewebsofhairwoventhroughit,thickasafullbeardinspots.Hiseyeswerealsoquitechangedandglaredoutattheaudiencewithaferocitythatsuggestedheindeed served as thehost of great evil.But all the same, therewas something inthoseeyesthatbeliedthefactofacompletetransformation—anawarenessofthebewitchment and an appeal for deliverance.Within the next fewmoments, thisobservationassumedadegreeofsubstance.

For the man on the movie screen regained himself, although briefly and inlimitedmeasure.Hiseffortofwillwasevidentinthesubtlecontortionsofhisface,and his ultimate accomplishment was modest enough: he managed to open hismouthinordertoscream.Ofcoursenosoundwasprojectedfromthemoviescreen,whichonlyplayedamusicof images foreyes thatwouldseewhat shouldnotbeseen.Thus,adisorientingeffectwascreated,asensorydissonancewhichresultedinmy being roused from the mood of the evening, its spell over me echoing tonothingness.Becausethescreamthatresonatedintheauditoriumhadoriginatedinanotherpartofthetheater,aplacebeyondtheauditorium’stoweringbackwall.

Consulting themanwhowas sitting nearme, I found him oblivious tomycommentsaboutthescreamwithinthetheater.Heseemedneithertohearnorseewhatwashappeningaroundhimandwhatwashappeningtohim.Longwiryhairsweresproutingfromthefabricoftheseats,snakinglowalongtheirarmsandalongeverypartofthem.Thehairshadalsopenetratedintotheclothoftheman’ssuit,but I couldnotmakehimaware ofwhatwashappening.Finally I rose to leave,because I could feel thehairs tugging tokeepme inposition.As I stoodup theyrippedawayfrommelikestraythreadspulledfromasleeveorpocket.

Nooneelseintheauditoriumturnedawayfromthemanonthemoviescreen,whohadlosttheabilitytocryoutandrelapsedintoaparalyticsilence.ProceedinguptheaisleIglancedaboveatarectangularopeninghighinthebackwallofthetheater,thewindow-likeslotfromwhichimagesofamovieareprojected.Framedwithinthisaperturewasthesilhouetteofwhatlookedlikeanoldwomanwithlong

and wildly tangled hair. I could see her eyes gazing fierce and malignant at thepurpleglowofthemoviescreen.Andfromtheseeyesweresentforthtwoshaftsofthepurestpurplelightthatshotthroughthedarknessoftheauditorium.

Exitingthetheater thewayIhadcome in, itwasnotpossible to ignore thewords“restroom,”sobrightlyweretheynowshining.Butthelampoverthesidedoorinthealleywasdead;thesignreadingENTRANCETOTHETHEATERwasgone.Even the letters spellingout thenameof the feature that eveninghadbeen takendown.So this hadbeen the last performance.Henceforth the theaterwouldbeclosedtothepublic;somehowIknewthistobethecase.

Also closed, if only for the night, were all the other businesses along thatparticularstreetinapartoftownIhadnevervisitedbefore.Despitethefactthattheyhadbeen litupbefore, even theones thathad shut theirdoors at that latehour,theshopwindowswerenowdark.AndhowsureIwasthatbehindeachoneof thosedarkwindows Ipassedwas theevendarker silhouetteofanoldwomanwithglowingeyesandagreatheadofmonstroushair.

TheVoice

ofthe

CHILD

TheLibraryofByzantium

FatherSevich’sVisit

InwhatevercornerofouroldhouseIhappenedtofindmyself,Icouldalwayssensethe arrival of a priest.Even in themost distant roomsof theupper floors, thoserooms which had been closed up and which were forbidden to me, I wouldsuddenly experience a very certain feeling.The climate ofmy surroundings thenbecameinexplicablyalteredinamanneratfirstvaguelytroublesomeandafterwardratherattractive.Itwasasifanewpresencehadinvadedtheveryechoesoftheairandenteredintothemellowafternoonsunlightcastingitsglowupondarkwoodenfloorsandthepalecontortionsofancientwallpaper.Allaroundmeinvisiblegameshadbegun.Myearliestphilosophyregardingthegreatpriestlytribewasthereforenotasimpleonebyanymeans;rather,itcomprisedathickmazeofpropositions,alabyrinthine layering of systems in which abstract dread and a bizarre sort ofindebtednesswereforeverconfrontingeachother.Inretrospect,then,thepreludetoFatherSevich’svisitseemstomeascrucial,andasintroductorytolaterevents,asthevisititself.SoIhavenoqualmsaboutlingeringupontheselonelymoments.

Formuch of that day I had been secluded inmy room, intently pursuing atypicalactivityofmyearlylifeandintheprocessbadlyravagingwhatpreviouslyhad been a well-made bed. Having sharpened my pencil innumerable times, andhavingworndownathickgrayeraserintoastub,Iwasreadytogivemyselfupasa relentless failure. The paper itself seemed to defy me, laying snares within itscoarsetexturetothwartmyeveryaim.Yetthisrebelliousmoodwasaquiterecentmanifestation: I had been allowed to fill in nearly the entire scene before thisbreakdowninrelationsbetweenmyselfandmymaterials.

Thecompletedportionofmydrawingwasanintenseimpressionofamonasticfantasy,evokingthecloistraltunnelsandthevaultedpenetraliawithoutattemptinga guide-book representation of them.Nevertheless, the absolute precision of twospecificelementsinthepicturewasverymuchonmymind.Thefirstofthesewasasingle row of columns receding in sharp perspective, a diminishing file of rigidsentinels starkly etched into the surrounding gloom. The second element was afigurewhohadhiddenhimselfbehindoneofthesecolumnsandwaspeeringoutoftheshadowsatsomethingfrightfulbeyondtheimmediatescene.Onlythefigure’s

faceandasinglecolumn-clutchinghandweretoberendered.ThehandIexecutedwellenough,butwhenitcametothenecessaryfeaturesoffearwhichneededtobeimplantedonthatcountenance—therewas simplynowaytocapture thedesiredeffect.Mywishwastohaveeverydetailoftheunseenhorrorclearlyreadable inthephysiognomyoftheseerhimself,amaddeningtaskand,atthetime,afutileone.Everymanipulationofmysoft-pointedpencilbetrayedme,maskingmyvictimwitha series of completely irrelevant expressions. First itwasmisty-eyedwonder, andthen a kind of cretinous bafflement.At one point the gentleman appeared to besmilinginanalmostamiablewayathisimminentdoom.

Thus, one may comprehend how easily I succumbed to the distraction ofFather Sevich’s visit. My pencil stopped dead on the paper, my eyes began towanderabout,checkingthecurtains,thecorners,andtheopenclosetforsomethingthat had come to play hide-and-seek with me. I heard footsteps methodicallytreading down the long hallway and stopping atmy bedroom door.My father’svoice, muffled by solid wood, instructed me to make an appearance downstairs.Therewasavisitor.

Myfrustrationsofthatafternoonmusthavedisadvantagedmesomewhat,becauseIcompletelyfellintothetrapofexpectation:thatis,IbelievedourcallerwasonlyFather Orne, who often dropped by and who served as a kind of ecclesiasticalfamiliarofourfamily.ButwhenIdescendedthestairsandsawthatstrangeblackcloakdroopingdownfromthemany-peggedrackbesidethefrontdoor,andwhenIsaw the wide-brimmed hat of the same color hanging beside it like an age-oldcompanion,Irealizedmyerror.

Fromtheparlorcamethesoundofsoftconversation,thesoftestpartofwhichwassuppliedbyFatherSevichhimself,whosespeakingvoicewasnomorethanasleepywhisper.Hewasseated,quitefairly,inoneofourmostexpansivearmchairs,toward which destination my mother maneuvered me as soon as I entered the

room. During the presentation I was silent, and for a few suspenseful momentsafterwardcontinuedtoremainso.FatherSevichthoughtthatIwasfascinatedintomuteness by his fancywalking stick, and he said as much.At that moment thepriest’s voice was infiltrated, to my amazement, by a foreign accent I had notpreviouslynoticed.Hehandedhiscaneovertomeforexamination,andIheftedtheformidablelengthofwoodafewtimes.However,therealsourceofmyfascinationlaynotinhispersonalaccessories,butinthepriest’sownperson,specificallyinthechalky-lookingtextureofhisroundface.

Invitedtojointheafternoongathering,IwasseatedinachairidenticaltotheonesupportingFatherSevich’sbulk,andangledslightlytowardit.Butmyallianceto this group was in body only: I contributed not a word to the ensuingconversation, nor did I understand those words that now filled the parlor withtheir drowsymusic.My concentration on the priest’s face hadwholly exiledmefrom the world of good manners and polite talk. It was not just the pale andpowdery cast of his complexion, but also a certain emptiness, a look ofincompleteness that made me think of some unfinished effigy in a toymaker’sworkshop. The priest smiled and squinted and performed several other commonmanipulations,noneofwhichresultedinatruefacialexpression.Somethingvitaltoexpressionwasmissing,someessentialspirit inwhichallexpressionsarebornandevolvetowardtheiruniquedestiny.And,toputitgraphically,hisfleshsimplydidnothavetheappearanceofflesh.

AtsomepointmymotherandfatherfoundanexcusetoleavemealonewithFather Sevich, presumably to allowhis influence to have a free rein overme, sothat his sacerdotal presencemight not be adulterated by the secularity of theirs.Thisdevelopmentwas innowaysurprising, since itwasmyparents’ secrethopethatsomedaymylifewouldtakemeat leastasfarastheseminary, ifnotbeyondthatintothepurple-robedmysteriesofpriesthood.

In the first few seconds after my parents had abandoned the scene, FatherSevich and I looked each other over, almost as if our previous introduction hadcounted fornaught.Andsoonavery interesting thinghappened:FatherSevich’s

faceunderwentachange,oneinfavorofthesoulwhichhadformerlybeeninterredwithinhismostobscuredepths.Now,fromoutofthatchalkytombemergedafaceof true expression, a masterly composition of animated eyes, living mouth, andnewlyflushedcheeks.Thistransformation,however,musthavebeenachievedatacertaincost; forwhathis facegained invitality, thepriest’svoice lost involume.Hiswordsnowsoundedlikethoseofahopelessinvalid,witheredthingsreekingofmedicinesandprayers.WhattheirexacttopicofdiscoursewasI’mnotcompletelysure,butIdorecallthatmydrawingsweretouchedupon.FatherOrne,ofcourse,wasalreadyfamiliarwiththesefledglingworks,thoughIdonotrecallthatheeverexpressed admiration for them. Nonetheless, it seemed that something in theirpictorialnaturehadcausedhimtomentionthemtohiscolleaguewhowasvisitingusfromtheoldcountry.SomethinghadcausedFatherOrnetosinglemypicturesout,asitwere,amongthesightsofhisparish.

Father Sevich spoke of those scribblings of mine in a highly circuitous andrarefied fashion, as if they were a painfully delicate subject which threatened abreachinouracquaintanceship.Ididnotgraspwhatconstitutedhistortuousandsubtleinterestinmypictures,butthisissuewaspartiallyclarifiedwhenheshowedmesomething:alittlebookhewascarryingwithintheintricatefoldsofhisclericalfrock.

Thecoveringofthebookhadtheappearanceofvarnishedwood,alldarkishandembellishedwithundulatinggrains.Atfirst I thoughtthatthisobjectwouldfeel every bit as brittle as it looked, until Father Sevich actually placed it inmyhandsandallowedmetodiscoverthatitsdeceptivebindingwasinfactextremelysupple,evenslippery.Therewerenowordsonthefrontofthebook,onlytwothinblack lineswhich intersected to create a cross.On closer examination, I observedthatthehorizontalbeamofthecrosshad,oneitherend,squigglylittleextensionsresemblingtinyhands.Andtheverticalbeamappearedtowidenatitsvertexintosomethinglikealittlebulb,sothattheblackdecorationformedasortofstickman.

AtFatherSevich’sinstruction,Irandomlyopenedthebookandthumbedoverseveralofitsincrediblythinpages,whichweremorelikelayersoflivingtissuethan

deadpulp.Thereseemedtobean infinitenumberofthem,withnopossibilityofeverreachingthebeginningortheendofthevolumemerelybyturningoverthepagesonebyone.Thepriestwarnedmetobecarefulandnottoharmanyofthesedelicateleaves,forthebookwasveryold,veryfragile,andunusuallyprecious.

The language in which the book was written resisted all but imaginaryidentificationsbyonewhowasaslimitedinyearsandlearningasIwasthen.Evennow,memorywillnotpermitmeto improveuponmyinitialspeculationthatthebookwascomposedinsomeexotictongueofantiquity.Butitsprofusionofpicturesalleviated many frustrations and illuminated the darkness of the book’s secretsymbols.Intheseexamplesoftheartofthewoodcut,Icouldalmostreadthetextscomposing the book, every one of which seemed devoted to wearing away at asingletheme:salvationthroughsuffering.

ItwasthischamberofsacredhorrorsthatFatherSevichbelievedwouldcatchmyeyeandmyinterest.Howfewofus,heexplained,reallyunderstoodtheholypurposeof such imagesof torment, thedivinedestinytowardwhichthepathsofanguish have always led. The production, and even the mere contemplation, ofthesevolumesofblessedagonywasoneofthegreatlostarts,heopenlylamented.Thenhebegantospeakaboutacertain library intheoldcountry.Buthiswordswerenow lostonme.Myattentionwasalreadywanderingalong itsownpaths,andmyeyewasinextricablycaughtbythedenselandscapeoftheseoldwoodcuts.Onesceneinparticularappearedexemplaryofthebook’ssoul.

The central figure in this illustration was bearded and emaciated, with hisheadbowed,handsfolded,andkneesbent.Contractedinanattitudeofprayerfulpleading,heseemedtobesuspendedinmid-air.Allaroundthisbonyasceticweretorturing demons, surprisingly effective owing to, or perhaps despite, the artist’sbrutaltechniqueandthesparsenessofprecisedetail.Anexceptiontothisgeneralrule of stylewas a single squattingdevilwhose single eyehad clusters ofperfectlittleeyesgrowingoutofit;andeachofthesmallereyeshaditsownbristlinglashesthat sprouted likeweeds, an explosion ofminute grotesquerie.The ascetic’s owneyeswere the focus of his particular form: starkwhite openings in an otherwise

dark face,with two tiny pupils rolling deliriously heavenward. Butwhatwas itaboutthetransportswrittenonthisfacewhichinspiredinmethesenseofthingsotherthanfearorpain,orevenpiety? Inanyevent, Idid find inspiration inthisterrible scene,andtriedtomakean imprintof ituponthephotographicplatesofmymemory.

Witha tightgripofmy index fingerand thumb, Iwasholding thepageonwhich thiswoodcutwas reproducedwhen Father Sevich unexpectedly snatchedthe book out ofmy hands. I looked up, not at the priest but atmymother andfathernowreturningtotheparloraftertheirbriefandcalculatedabsence.FatherSevichwasgazinginthesamedirection,whileblindlystashingthelittlebookbackin its place. Sohemustnothavenoticed the thin leafwhichwas looselydrapedovermyfingersandwhichIimmediatelyconcealedbetweenmylegs.Atanyrate,he saidnothingabout themishap.Andat the time I couldnot imagine that anypoweronearthcouldperceivethe lossofasinglepagefromthe impossiblydenseand prodigious layers of that book.Certainly Iwas safe from the eyes of FatherSevich, which had once again become as dull and expressionless as the plastercomplexionofhisface.

Shortlythereafterthepriesthadtobeonhisway.WithfascinationIwatchedasheassembledhimselfinourfoyer,donninghiscloak,adjustinghishugehat,andproppinguphislargebodywithhiswalkingstick.Beforeleaving,heinvitedusalltovisithimintheoldcountry,andwepromisedtodososhouldourtravelsevertakeustothatpartoftheworld.Whilemymotherheldmeclosetoherside,myfatheropenedthedoorforthepriest.Andthesunnyafternoon,nowgrownwindyandovercast,receivedhim.

FatherSevich’sReturn

Thestolenwoodcutfromthepriest’sprayerbook,asIcametothinkofit,wasnotthesolutionIthoughtitwouldbe.AlthoughIsuspectedthatitpossessedcertain

inspirationalpowers,amodestfundofmoralenergy,Isoonfoundthatthemacabreiconwithhelditsblessingsfromoutsiders.Ihadnotthenconsideredthatasacredimageof thiskindwouldhave sucha secretivenature, for Iwasmore infatuatedwiththeprofanelessonsIbelieveditcouldteach—aboveall,howImightprovidemy facelessman in themonasterywitha countenanceof true terror.However, Ilearnednosuchlessonsandwasforcedtoleavemyfigureinanunfinishedstate,aridiculously empty slatewhich I remained unable to embellishwith the absolutehorrorofanoff-stageatrocity.Butthepicture,Imeantheoneintheprayerbook,didhaveanotherandunsuspectedvalueforme.

SinceIhadalreadyestablishedaspiritualrapportwithFatherSevich,Icouldnotobstructacertainawarenessofhisownmysteries.Hesoonbecameconnectedinmymindwithunarticulatednarrativesofacertainkind,storiesintherough,andonespotentiallyepic,evencosmic,inscope.Withoutadoubttherewasanauraoflegend about him, a cycle ofmute, incredible lore; and I resolved that his futuremovementsmeritedmyclosestpossibleattention.Suchadifficultundertakingwasmadeinfinitelyeasierduetomypossessionofthatsingle,flimsypagetornfromhisprayerbook.

Ikeptitwithmeatalltimes,protectivelyenclosedinsomewrappingtissueIborrowedfrommymother.Theinitialresultsweresoonincoming,butatthesametime they were not entirely successful, considering the expense of this ratherprodigal burst of psychic effort. Hence, the early scenes were highly imperfect,visions easily dispersed, fragmentary, some quite near to nonsense.Among themwas a visit Father Sevich paid another family, a morose vignette in which theanemicpriestseemedtohavegrownpaletothepointoftranslucency.

And the others involved were even worse: some of them had barelymaterialized or were visible only as a sort of anthropomorphic mist. There wasconsiderableimprovementwhenFatherSevichwasaloneorinthepresenceofonlyone other person. A lengthy conversation with Father Orne, for example, wasprojected in its totality; but, as in an improperly lighted photographic scene, thesubstanceofeveryshapehadbeenwatereddownintoaneerielividity.Also,given

the nature of these visionary endeavors, the entire meeting transpired in deadsilence,asifthetwoclergymenweremerelypantomimingtheirparts.

Andinallphasesofactivity,FatherSevichremainedthemodelvisitorfromaforeigndiocese, layingnonewgroundforscandalsincehisbrief,thoughinfinitelypromising,visitwithmyparentsandme.Perhapstheonlyoccasionsonwhichhethreatenedtoliveuptothispromise,thispledgetoincarnatesomeofthoseabstractmyths that his character suggested to my imagination, took place during hisintervalsofabsoluteprivacy.Inthemostunconscioushoursofdarkness,whentherest of the rectory’s population was in slumber, Father Sevich would leave theaustere comforts of his bed and, seating himself at awindow-facing desk,wouldporeoverthecontentsofacertainbook,turningpageafterpageandstoppingeverysooftentomouthsomeofthestrangewordsinscribeduponthem.Somehowthesewere the sentences of his own mysterious biography, a chronicle of trulyunspeakable things. In the formation of the priest’s lips as he mimed theincantationsofadead language, in thedartingmovementsofhis tonguebetweenrowsofimmaculateteeth,onecouldalmostcharttheconvolutedchronologyofthisforeignman.

How alien is the deepest life of another: the unbelievable beginnings; theunimaginably elaborate developments; and the incalculable eons which prepare,whichforetell,themultiformphenomenaofanuncertainnumberofyears!MuchofwhatFatherSevichhadenduredinhisallottedspancouldalreadybereadonhisface.Butsomethingstillremainedtoberevealedinhisfeatures,somethingwhichtheglowinglamprestinguponthedesk,joinedbythelightofeveryconstellationinthevisibleuniverse,wasstrugglingtoilluminate.

When Father Sevich returned to his homeland, I lost all touch with his life’swhereabouts, and soon my own life collapsed back into its established routine.After thatweary and fruitless summer had passed, it was time for me to begin

another year of school, to encounter once again the oppressive mysteries of theautumnseason.ButIhadnotentirelyforgottenmyadventurewithFatherSevich.Attheheightofthefall semesterwebegantodrawpumpkinswiththickorangecrayons whose points were awkwardly blunt, and with dull scissors we shapedblackcatsfromtheformlessdepthsofblackpaper.Succumbingtoahopelessurgeforinnovation,Icreatedaman-shapedsilhouettewithmypaperandscissors.Thejust proportions ofmy handiwork even received compliments from the nunwhoservedasourartinstructor.ButwhenItrimmedthefigurewithatinywhitecollarand gave it a crudely screaming mouth—there was outrage and there waspunishment.Without arguing ahappy sequence of cause and effect between thisincidentandwhatfollowed, itwasnot longafterwardthattheschoolseason, forme,becameeventfulwithillness.Anditwasduringthistimeofshatteredroutine,asIlaythreedaysandnightsdrippingwithfever,thatIregainedmyhold,withavisionarygraspthatreachedacrosstheoceanbetweenus,onthecuriousitineraryofFatherSevich.

Withhatandcloakandwalkingstick,theoldpriestwashobblingalongratherbriskly,andalone,downthenarrow,nocturnalstreetsofsomeveryoldtownintheoldcountry.Itwasafairy-talevisiontowhichnoteventhemostlovingillustratorofmedieval legendscoulddo justice.Fortunately, the town itself—theserpentinelanes, the distorted glow of streetlamps, the superimposed confusion of pointedroofs, the thinnest blade of moon which seemed to belong to this town as itbelongedtonootherplaceonearth—doesnotrequireanyprotractedemphasisinthismemoir.Althoughitdidnotgiveawayitsidentity,eitherinnameorlocation,the town still demanded a designation of some kind, some official title, howevermuch in error itmight be.Andof all the names that had ever been attached toplacesofthisworld,theonlyonewhichseemedproper,initsdeliriousway,wasanancientnamewhich,afteralltheseyears,seemsnolessfittingandnolessludicrousnowthanitdidthen.Unmentionablyludicrous,soIwillnotmentionit.

NowFatherSevichwasdisappearingintoanarrownichebetweentwodarkhouses,whichledhimtoanunpavedlaneborderedbylowwalls,alongwhichhe

traveledinalmosttotalblacknessuntilthepathwayopenedintoasmallcourtyardsurroundedbyhighwalls and litbya singledull lampat its center.Hepausedamomenttocatchhisbreath,andwhenhegazedupatthenight,as iftoreconcilehiscoursewiththestarsabove,onecouldseehisfacesweatingandshininginthejaundiced lamplight. Somewhere in the shadows thatwere draped and flutteringuponthosehighwallswasanopening.Passingthroughthisdoubtfulgate,theoldpriest continued his incredible rambling about the darkest and most remotequartersoftheoldtown.

Nowhewasdescendingastairwayofcutstonewhichledbelowthelevelofthe town’s streets; then a brief tunnel brought him to another stairway whichburrowedinaspiraldownintotheearthandabsoluteblackness.Knowinghisway,the priest ultimately emerged from this nowhere of blacknesswhen he suddenlyenteredavastcircularchamber.Theplaceappearedtobeatowersunkenbeneaththetownandsoaringtoagreatandparadoxicalheight.Intheupperreachesofthetower, tiny lights glimmered like stars and threw down their illumination in apatternlessweaveofcrisscrossingstrands.

The subterranean structure, at whose center Father Sevich now stood,ascendedinaseriesofterraces,eachborderedbyashiningbalustrademadeofsomegoldenmetalandeachcirclingtheperimeteroftheinnerchamber.Theseterracesmultiplied into the upward distance, contracting in perspective into smaller andthinner circles, blurring together at some point and becoming lost in clouds ofshadows that hovered far above. Each level was furthermore provided withnumerousandregularlyspacedportals,allofthemdark,hintingatnothingofwhatlaybeyondtheirunguardedthresholds.Butonemightsurmisethatifthiswasthelibraryofwhichthepriestspoke,ifthiswasatruerepositoryofsuchbooksastheonehehad just removed fromunderhis cloak, then those slender openingsmusthaveledtothearchivesofthisprodigiousathenaeum,suggestingnothinglessthana bibliographic honeycomb of unknown expanse and complexity. Scanning theshadowsabouthim,thepriestseemedtobeanticipatingtheappearanceofsomeonein charge, someone entrusted with the care of this institution. Then one of the

shadows,oneofthemostsizeableshadowsandtheoneclosesttothepriest,turnedaround…andthreesuchcaretakersnowstoodbeforehim.

Thistriumvirateoffiguresseemedtosharethesameface,whichwasalmostacaricature of serenity. They were attired very much like the priest himself, andtheireyeswerelargeandcalm.Whenthepriestheldoutthebooktotheoneinthemiddle,ahandmovedforwardtotakeit,ahandaswhiteasthewhitestglove.Thecentralfigurethenresteditsotherhandflatuponthefrontofthebook,andthenthefiguretotheleftextendedahandwhichlaiditselfuponthefirst;thenathirdhand,belongingtothethirdfigure,coveredthembothwithitssoftwhitepalmandlongfingers,unitingthethree.Thehandsremainedthusplacedforsometime,asifan invisible transference of fabulously subtle powers was occurring, somethingbeinggivenorreceived.Theheadsofthethreefiguresslowlyturnedtowardoneanother,andsimultaneouslytherewasachangeintheatmosphereofthechamberstreakedwiththechaoticraysofunderworldstarlight.Andifforcedtonamethisnewqualityandpointto itsoutwardsign,onemightdrawattentiontoacertainlookinthelargeeyesofthethreecaretakers,acertainexpressionofrarefiedscornordisgust.

Theyremovedtheirhandsfromthebookandplacedthemonceagainoutofview. Then the caretakers turned their eyes upon the priest, who had alreadymovedafewstepsawayfromtheseindignantshadows.Butasthepriestbegantoturnhisbackonthem,almostpreciselyatthemid-pointofhispivot,heseemedtofreezeabruptlyinposition,likesomeonewhohasjustheardhisnamecalledouttohim in some strange place far from home. However, he did not remain thustransfixedforverylong,thisstatuepoisedtotakeastepwhichisforbiddentoit,with its face as rigid and pale as amonument’s stone. Soon his black, ankle-highshoesbegantokickaboutastheyleftthesolidground.Andwhenthepriesthadrisenalittlehigher,wellintotheabsoluteinsecurityofemptyair,helostholdofhiswalkingstick;anditfelltothegreatemptyexpanseofthetower’sfloor,whereitlookedassmallasatwigorapencil.Hiswide-brimmedhatsoonfollowed,settlingcrown-upbesidethecane,asthepriestbegantossingandturning intheair likea

restlesssleeper,wrappinghimselfupinthedarkcocoonofhiscloak.Thenthecloakwastornaway,butnotbythethrashingpriest.Somethingelsewasuptherewithhim,ascendingtheuncountabletiersofthetower,orperhapsmanyunseenthingswhichrippedathisclothes,atthesparselocksofhishair,attheinterlockingfingersof his hands which were now folded and pressed to his forehead, as though indesperateprayer.Andfinallyathisface.

Nowthepriestwasnomorethanadarkspeckagitatinginthegreaterheightsof the dark tower. Soon he was nothing at all. Below, the three figures hadabscondedtotheirrefugeofshadows,andthevastchamberappearedemptyoncemore.Theneverythingwentblack.

Myfevergrewworseoverthecourseofseveralmoredays,andthenlateonenightitsuddenly,quiteunexpectedly,broke.Exhaustedbytheordealsofmydelirium,Ilayburied inmybedbeneathheavyblankets,whoseusuallynumerous layershadbeen supplemented according to the ministrations of my mother. Just a fewmomentsbefore,orafewmillennia,shehadgoneoutofmyroom,believingthatIwas at last asleep. But I had not even come near to sleeping, no more than Iapproachedanormalstateofwakefulness.Theonly illuminationinmyroomwasthe natural nightlight of themoon shining through thewindows. Through half-closedeyesIfocusedonthislight,suspectingstrangethingsaboutit,untilIfinallynoticedthatallthecurtainsinmyroomhadbeentightlydrawn,thatthepaleglowatthefootofmybedwasanunnaturalphosphorescence,aninfernalauraorangelichalobeamingabouttheformofFatherSevichhimself.

InmyconfusionIgreetedhim,tryingtoliftmyheadfromitspillowbutfallingback in weakness. He showed no awareness of my presence, and for a second Ithought—inthehellishwanderingsofmyfever—thatIwastherevenant,nothe.Attempting to take a clearer account of things, I forced openmy leaden eyelidswithallthestrengthIcouldmuster.Asarewardforthiseffort,Iwitnessedwith

allpossibleacuityofmyinwardandoutwardvisiontheincorporealgrandeurofthespecter’s face. And in a moment immeasurable by earthly increments of time, Igrasped every detail, every datum and nuance of this visitor’s life-history, thefantasticdestinywhichhad culminated in the creationof this infinitelygruesomevisage,onewhoseexpressionhadgrownrigidatthesightofunimaginablehorrorsandpetrifiedintospectralstone.Andinthatsamemoment,IfeltthatI,too,couldseewhatthislostsoulhadseen.

Now,withall the forceofaplanetrevolving itsunspeakabletonnage intheblacknessofspace,thefaceturnedonitsterribleaxisand,whileitstillappearedtohave no apprehension of my existence, it spoke, as if to itself alone and to itssolitarydoom:

Notgivenbackasithadbeengiven,thelawofthebookisbroken.Thelaw…ofthebook…isbroken.

The specter had barely spoken the last resounding syllables of its strange

pronouncementwhenitunderwentachange.Beforemyeyesitbegantoshrivellikesomethingthrownintoafire,andwithouttheleastindicationofanguishitcrinkledintonothing,asifsomeinvisiblepowerhadsuddenlydecidedtodisposeofitswork,tocrumpleupanabortedexerciseandtossitintooblivion.AnditwasthenthatIfeltmyownpurposesatan intersection,a fortuitouscrossroads,withthatsavageandunseenhand.ButIwouldnotscornwhatIhadseen.Myhealthmiraculouslyrestored,Igatheredtogethermydrawingmaterialsandstayeduptherestofthatnightrecordingthevision.AtlastIhadthefaceIwasseeking.

Postscriptum

Notlongafterthatnight,Ipaidavisittoourparishchurch.Asthisgesturewasentirely self-initiated, my parents were free to interpret it as a sign of things tocome,andnodoubttheydidso.Thepurposeofthisact,however,wasmerelytocollect a small bottle of holy water from the handsome metal cistern whichdispensedthisliquidtothepublicandwhichstoodinthevestibuleofthechurch.Withapologiestomymotherandfather,Ididnotonthisoccasionactuallyenterthe church itself. Gaining the priest-blessed solution, I hurried home, where Iimmediately unearthed—from the bottom of my dresser drawer—the page tornfromFatherSevich’sbook.Bothitems,prayerbookpageandbottleofholywater,Itookintotheupstairsbathroom.Ilockedthedoorandplacedthedelicatelittleleafin the bathroom sink, staring for a few moments at that wonderful woodcut. Iwondered if one day Imightmake amends formy act of vandalism, perhaps byofferingsomethingofmyowntoacertainrepositoryforsuchtreasuresintheoldcountry.But then I recalled the fateofFatherSevich,whichhelped tochase thewholematterfrommymind.Fromtheuncorkedbottle,Isprinkledtheholywateroverthepreciouspagespreadoutatthebottomofthesink.Forafewmomentsitsizzled, exactly as if I had poured a powerful acid on it, and gave off a notunpleasant vapor, an incense reeking of secret denial and privilege. Finally, itdissolvedaltogether.ThenIknewthatthegamewasover,thedreamatanend.InthemirrorabovethesinkIsawmyownfacesmilingasmileofdeepcontentment.

MISSPlarr

Itwasspring,thoughstillquiteearlyintheseason,whenayoungwomancametolivewith us.Her purposewas tomanage the affairs of the householdwhilemymotherwassufferingsomevagueailment,lingeringbutnotserious,andmyfatherwasawayonbusiness.Shearrivedononeofthosemisty,drizzlingdayswhichoftenprevailedduringtheyoungmonthsofthatparticularyearandwhichremaininmymemoryasthesignatureofthisremarkabletime.Sincemymotherwasself-confinedtoherbedandmyfatherabsent,itwasleftformetoanswerthosesharp,urgentrappings at the frontdoor.Howtheyechoed throughout themany roomsof thehouse,reverberatinginthefarthestcornersoftheupperfloors.

Pullingonthecurvedmetaldoorhandle,sohugeinmychild’shand,Ifoundherstandingwithherbacktomeandstaringdeepintoaworldofdarkeningmist.Her black hair glistened in the light from the vestibule. As she turned slowlyaround, my eyes were fixed upon that great ebony turban of hair, folded soelaborately into itself again and again yet in some way rebelling against thisdiscipline,withmany shiny strandsescaping theirbondsandburstingoutwildly.Indeed,itwasthroughastraggleofmist-coveredlocksthatshefirstglareddownatme,saying:“Mynameis…”

“Iknow,”Isaid.But at thatmoment itwas not somuch her name that I knew, despitemy

father’s diligent recitations of it to me, as all the unexpected correspondences Isensedinherphysicalpresence.Forevenaftershesteppedintothehouse,shekepther head slightly turned and glanced over her shoulder through the open door,watchingtheelementsoutsideandlisteningwithintenseexpectancy.Bythenthisstranger had already gained a precise orientation amid theworld’s chaos of facesand other phenomena. Quite literally her place was an obscure one, lyingsomewhere deep within the peculiar mood of that spring afternoon when thenaturalgesturesoftheseasonhadbeenapparentlydistancedandsuppressedbyanotherworldlydesolation—aseethingluxuriancehiddenbehinddarkbattlementsofclouds looming above a bare, practically hibernal landscape.And the sounds forwhich she listenedalso seemedremoteand stifled, shutoutbyamuteand sullen

twilight,smotheredinthattowerofstone-graysky.However,whileMissPlarr appeared to reflectwith exactitude all the signs

andmannerismsofthosedaysallshackledingloom,herplaceinourhouseholdwasstillanuncertainty.

During theearlypartofher staywithus,MissPlarrwasmoreoftenheardthanseen.Herduties,whetherbyinstructionorherowninterpretation,hadsoonengagedherinaroutineofwanderingthroughouttheechoingroomsandhallwaysofthehouse.Rarelywasthereaninterruptioninthosefootstepsastheysoundedupon aged floorboards; day and night this gentle crepitating signaled thewhereabouts of our vigilant housekeeper. In the morning I awoke to themovementsofMissPlarronthefloorsaboveorbelowmybedroom,whilelateintheafternoon,whenIoftenspenttimeinthelibraryuponmyreturnfromschool,Icouldheartheclip-cloppingofherheelsontheparquetintheadjacentroom.Evenlate at night, when the structure of the house expressed itself with a fugue ofnoises,MissPlarraugmentedthisdecrepitmusicwithherownslowpacinguponthestairsoroutsidemydoor.

OnetimeIfeltmyselfawakenedinthemiddleofthenight,thoughitwasnotanydisturbingsounds thathadbrokenmysleep.AndIwasunsureexactlywhatmadeitimpossibleformetoclosemyeyesagain.Finally,Islidoutofbed,quietlyopenedthedoorofmyroomafewinches,andpeepeddownthedarkenedhallway.At the end of that long passagewas awindow filledwith the livid radiance ofmoonlight,andwithintheframeofthatwindowwasMissPlarr,herentireformshadedintoasilhouetteasblackastheblacknessofherhair,whichwasallpiledupinto the wild shape of some night-blossom. So intently was she staring out thewindowthatshedidnotseemtodetectmyobservanceofher.I,ontheotherhand,couldnolongerignoretheforceofherpresence.

ThefollowingdayIbeganaseriesofsketches.Theseworksfirsttookformasdoodles in the margins of my school books, but swiftly evolved into projects ofgreatersizeandambition.Giventheenigmasofanyvarietyofcreation,Iwasnotentirely surprised that the images I had elaborated did not include the overt

portrayal ofMissPlarrherself, norof otherpersonswhomight servebywayofsymbolismorassociation.Instead,mydrawingsappearedtoillustratescenesfromataleofsomestrangeandcruelkingdom.Possessedbycuriousmoodsandvisions,Idepictedableakdomainthatwasobscuredbyakindoffogorcloudwhosedepthsbroughtforthaplethoraofincrediblestructures,allofthemsomehowtwistedintoaspectsofbizarresavagery.Fromthematrixofthisfertilehazewasbornalitteroftoweringedificesthatcombinedthetraitsofcastleandcrypt,many-peakedpalaceandmulti-chamberedmausoleum.Buttherewerealsoclustersofsmallerbuildings,warpedoffshootsofthegreaterones,housingperhapsnomorethanasingleroom,anapartmentofominouslyskeweddesign,anintimatedungeoncellreservedforthemostexclusivecaptivity.Ofcourse,Ibetrayednospecialgeniusinmyexecutionofthese phantasmal venues: my technique was as barbarous as my subject. Andcertainly I was unable to introduce into the menacing images any suggestion ofcertainsoundsthatseemedintegraltotheirproperrepresentation,akindofauralaccompanimenttotheseoperaticstagesets.Infact,Iwasnotableeventoimaginethese sounds with any degree of clarity. Yet I knew that they belonged in thepictures, and that, like the purely visible dimension of theseworks, their sourcecouldbefoundinthepersonofMissPlarr.

Although I had not intended to showher the sketches, therewas evidencethat she had indulged in private viewings of them.They laymore or less in theopen on the desk inmy bedroom; I made no effort to conceal mywork.And Ibegan to suspect that their orderwas being disturbed inmy absence, to sense asubtle disarrangement that was vaguely telling but not conclusive. Finally, uponreturningfromschoolonegrayafternoon,IdiscoveredasuresignofMissPlarr’sinvestigations.Forlyingbetweentwoofmydrawings,pressedlikeamementoinanoldscrapbook,wasalong,blackstrandofhair.

I wanted to confront Miss Plarr immediately regarding her intrusion, notbecause I resented it inanywaybut solely to seize theoccasion toapproach thisdeviouseccentricandperhapsdrawclosertothestrangesightsandsoundsshehadbroughtintoourhousehold.However,atthatstageofhertermofemploymentshe

wasno longer so easily located,having ceasedher constant,noisymaraudingandbegunpracticingmoresedentaryorstealthyrituals.

Sincetherewasnosignofherelsewhereinthehouse,Iwentdirectlytotheroomwhichhadbeensetasideforher,andwhichIhadpreviouslyrespectedashersanctum.ButasIslowlysteppeduptotheopendoorwayIsawthatshewasnotthere.Afterenteringtheroomandrummagingabout, Irealizedthatshewasnotusing it at all and perhaps had never settled in. I turned around to continuemysearchforMissPlarrwhenIfoundherstandingsilentlyinthedoorwayandgazinginto the room without fixing her eyes on anything, or anyone, within it. Ineverthelessappearedtobeinapositionofchastisement,losingalltheadvantageIearlier possessed over this invader ofmy sanctum.Yet therewas nomention ofeither of these transgressions, despitewhat seemed ourmutual understanding ofthem. We were helplessly drifting into an abyss of unspoken reproaches andsuspicions.Finally,MissPlarrrescuedusbothbymakinganannouncementshehadobviouslybeensavingfortherightmoment.

“I have spokenwith yourmother,” she declared in a strong voice, “andwehave concluded that I should begin tutoring you in some of yourweaker schoolsubjects.”

I believe that Imust have nodded, or offered some other gesture of assent.“Good,”shesaid.“Wewillstarttomorrow.”

Then, ratherquietly, shewalkedaway, leavingherwords toresound in thecavityofthatunoccupiedroom—unoccupied,Imayclaim,sincemyownpresencenow seemed to have been eclipsed by the swelling shadow of Miss Plarr.Nonetheless, this extra-scholastic instruction did prove of immense value inilluminatingwhat,atthetime,wasmyweakestsubject:MissPlarringeneral,withspecial attention to where she had made accommodations for herself in ourhousehold.

MytutelagewasconductedinaroomthatMissPlarrfeltwasespeciallysuitedtothe purpose, though her reasoningmay not have been readily apparent. For theplaceshehadselectedtoimpartherlessonstomewasasmallatticlocatedbeneatharooftowardthebackofthehouse.Theslantedceilingofthatroomexposedtousitsrottingbeamsliketheribbingofsomeancientseagoingvesselthatmightcarryusto unknown destinations. And there were cold drafts that eddied around us,opposing currents emanating from the warped frame in which a many-panedwindow softly rattled now and then. The light by which I was schooled wasprovidedbyovercastafternoonsfadinginthatwindow,assistedbyanoldoillampwhichMissPlarrhadhunguponanail inoneoftheatticrafters.(Istillwonderwheresheunearthedthatantique.)Itwasthisgreasylamplightthatenabledmetoglimpseaheapofoldragswhichhadbeenpiledinacornertoformakindofcrudebedding.NearbystoodthesuitcaseMissPlarrhadarrivedwith.

Theonlyfurnitureinthisroomwasalowtable,whichservedasmydesk,anda small frail chair, both articles being relics ofmy early childhood and no doubtrediscoveredinthecourseofmyteacher’smanyexpeditionsthroughoutthehouse.Seated at the center of the room, I submitted to the musty pathos of mysurroundings.“Inaroomsuchasthis,”MissPlarrasserted,“onemaylearncertainthingsof thegreatest importance.”SoI listenedwhileMissPlarrclompednoisilyabout,wieldinga longwoodenpointerwhichhadnoblackboard topoint to.Allconsidered,however,shediddeliveraseriesofquitefascinatinglectures.

Withoutattemptingtorendertheexactrhetoricofherdiscourse,IrememberthatMiss Plarr was especially concerned with my development in subjects thatoften touched upon history or geography, occasionally broaching realms ofphilosophy and science. She lectured frommemory, never once hesitating in herdelivery of countless facts that had not reached me byway of the conventionalavenues ofmy education.Yet these talkswere nonetheless asmeandering as herfootstepsuponthecoldfloorofthatatticroom,andatfirstIwasbreathlesstryingto followher fromone point to the next. Eventually, though, I began to extractcertainthemesfromherchaoticsyllabus.Forinstance,shereturnedtimeandagain

to the earliest twitchings of human life, portraying a world of only the mostrudimentary law but one intriguingly advanced in what she called “visceralpractices.”Sheallowedthatmuchofwhatshesaidinthiswaywasspeculative.Inherdiscussionsoflaterperiods,shedeferredtotherestrictions,whilealsoenjoyingtheexplicitness,ofacceptedrecords.Hence,IwasmadeintimatewiththoseancientatrocitieswhichgainedrenownforaPersianmonarch,withacentury-oldmassacreintheBrazilianbacklands,andwiththespecificmethodsofpunishmentemployedbyvarioussocietiesoftenrelegatedtothemarginsofhistory.Andinotherflightsofinstruction,duringwhichMissPlarrmightflourishherpointerintheairlikeanartist’s paintbrush, Iwas introduced to landswhose chief featurewas a kind ofbrutalityandanairofexile—coarseandtortuousterrains,deliriumsofearthandsky.These included desolate, fog-bound islands in polar seas, countries of barrenpeakslaceratedbyunceasingwinds,wastelandsthatconsumedallsenseofrealityintheirvastspaces,shadowedrealmslitteredwithdeadcities,andswelteringhellsofjunglewherelightitselfistingedwithabluishslime.

At some point, however,Miss Plarr’s specialized curriculum, once so novelandengrossing,dulledwithrepetition.Istartedtofidgetinmyminiatureseat;myheadslumpedovermyminiaturedesk.Thenherwordssuddenlystopped,andshedrew close to me, laying her rubber-tipped pointer across my shoulder.When IlookedupIsawonlythoseeyesglaringdownatme,andthatblackbundleofhairoutlinedinthedismallightdriftingthroughtheatticlikeaglowingvapor.

“Inaroomsuchasthis,”shewhispered,“onemayalsolearntheproperwaytobehave.”

Thepointerwasthenpulledaway,grazingmyneck,andMissPlarrwalkedover to thewindow.Outside, one of the greatmists of that spring obscured thelandscape.Asifseenthroughmurkysheetsofice,everythingappearedremoteandhallucinatory.Anindeterminatefigureherself,MissPlarrgazedoutataworldofshadowsboundinplace.Shealsoseemedtobelisteningtoit.

“Do you know the sound of something that stings the air?” she asked,swingingherpointerlightlyagainstherself.

Iunderstoodhermeaningandnoddedmycompliance.ButatthesametimeIimaginedmorethanateacher’sswitchasitcamedownuponapupil’sbody.Soundsmoreseriousandmorestrangeintrudeduponthehushoftheclassroom.Theywerefaraway sounds lost in the hissing of rainy afternoons: immense blades sweepingovervastspaces;expansivewingscuttingthroughcoldwinds;longwhipslashingindarkness. I also heard the sound of things thatwere “stinging the air” in placesbeyond all comprehension. These sounds grew increasingly louder. Finally,MissPlarrdroppedherpointerandputherhandsoverherears.

“Thatwillbeallfortoday,”sheshouted.Andneitherdidsheholdclassonthefollowingday,noreveragainresumemy

tutelage.

Itseemed,however,thatmylessonswithMissPlarrhadcontinuedinadifferentform.Those afternoons in that atticmust have exhausted somethingwithinme,andforabrieftimeIwasunabletoleavemybed.DuringthisperiodInoticedthatMissPlarrwassufferingadeclineofherown,allowingtheintangiblesympathieswhich had already existed between us to become so much deeper and moreentangled.To someextent itmightbe said thatmyownprocess ofdegenerationwas followinghers,much asmy faculty ofhearing, sensitizedby illness, followedherechoingfootstepsastheymovedaboutthehouse.ForMissPlarrhadrevertedtoherrestlesswandering,somehowhavingfailedtosettleherselfintoanykindofrepose.

On her visits to my room, which had become frequent and were alwaysunexpected,Icouldobservethephasesofherdissolutiononbothamaterialandapsychic level.Herhairnowhung looseabouther shoulders, twisting itself in themosthideousways likeadarkmeshofnightmares,a foulnest inwhichherownsuspicions were swarming.Moreover, her links to a strictly mundane order hadbecomeshockinglydecayed,andmyrelationshipwithherwasconductedattherisk

ofintimacywithspheresofahighlyquestionablenature.OneafternoonIawokefromanaptodiscoverthatallthedrawingsshehad

inspiredmetoproducehadbeentorntopiecesand layscatteredaboutmyroom.But this primitive attempt at exorcism proved to have no effect, for in the latehoursofthatsamenightIfoundhersittingonmybedandleaningclosetome,herhair brushing against my face. “Tell me about those sounds,” she demanded.“You’vebeendoing this to frightenme,haven’tyou?”Forawhile I felt shehadslippedawayaltogether, severingourextraordinarybondandallowingmyhealthto improve. But just as I seemed to be approaching a full recovery,Miss Plarrreturned.

“Ithinkthatyou’remuchbetternow,”shesaidassheenteredmyroomwithabriskness thatseemedtobeaneffort.“Youcangetdressedtoday. Ihavetodosomeshopping,andIwantyoutocomealongandassistme.”

Imighthaveprotestedthattogooutonsuchadaywouldcausemetorelapse,for outside waited a heavy spring dampness and so much fog that I could seenothingbeyondmybedroomwindow.ButMissPlarrwasalreadylosttotheworldof wholesome practicalities, while her manner betrayed a hypnotic and fatefuldeterminationthatIcouldnothaveresisted.

“Asforthis fog,”shesaid,eventhoughIhadnotmentioned it,“Ithinkweshallbeabletofindourway.”

Having a child’s weakness for prospects of misadventure, I followed MissPlarr into that fog-smothered landscape.Afterwalking only a few stepswe lostsight of the house, and even the ground beneath our feetwas submerged underlayersofapale,floatingweb.Butshetookmyhandandmarchedonasifguidedbysomepeculiarvision.

Anditwasbyhergraspthatthisvisionwasconductedintome,settingbothofusuponastrangepath.Yetasweprogressed,Ibegantorecognizecertainshapesgradually emerging around us—that brood of dark formswhich pushed throughthefog,asiftheirgrowthcouldnolongerbecontainedbyit.WhenItightenedmygrip onMiss Plarr’s hand—which seemed to be losing its strength, fading in its

substance—the vision surged toward clarity.With the aspect of some leviathanrising intoviewfromtheabyss,amonstrousworlddefined itselfbeforeoureyes,forcingitswaythroughthesurfaceofthefog,whichnowtrailedinwispsaboutthestructuresofanimmenseandawfulkingdom.

Moreexpansiveandintricatethanmyearlier,purelyartisticimaginings,thesestructures sprung forth like a patternless conglomerate of crystals, angular andmany-facetedmonumentsclusteringinamistygraveyard.Itwasadeadcityindeed,andall residentswere entombedwithin itswalls—or theywerenowhere.Therewerestreetsofasortwhichcutthroughthischaosofarchitecture,windingamongthe lopsided buildings, and yet it all retained an interlocking unity, much like amountain range of wildly carved peaks and chasms and very much like themountainousandmurkythunderheadsofarainyseason.Surelytheveryessenceofa storm inhered in the jagged dynamism of these structures, a pyrotechnics thatremained suspended or hidden, its violence amatter of suspicion and conjecture,suggesting a realm of atrocious potential—that infinite country which hoversbeyondfogsandmistsandgrayheapingskies.

But even here something remained obscure, a sense provoked of rites orobservancesbeingenactedinconcealment.Andthispeculiarsensewasarousedbycertain sounds,asof smotheredcacophonousechoes lashingout inblackcellsandscourging the lengths of blind passages. Through the silence of the fog theygraduallydisseminated.

“Doyouhearthem?”askedMissPlarr,thoughbythentheyhadalreadyrisentoaconspicuousstridency.“Thereareroomswecannotseewherethosesoundsarebeingmade.Soundsofsomethingthatstingstheair.”

Hereyesseemedtobepossessedbythesightoftheseroomsshespokeof;herhairwasminglingwith themist aroundus.Finally, she releasedherhold onmyhand and drifted onward.Therewas no struggle: she had known for some timewhatloomedinthebackgroundofherwanderingandwhatwaitedherapproach.Perhapsshethoughtthiswassomethingshecouldpassontoothers,or inwhichshemightgaintheircompany.Buthercompany,herpropercompany,hadallthe

timebeenpreparingforherarrivalelsewhere.Nevertheless,shehadhonoredmeastheheirofhervisions.

Thefogsweptaroundherandthickenedonceagainuntiltherewasnothingelse thatcouldbe seen.Aftera fewmoments Imanagedtogainmygeographicalbearings,findingmyselfinthemiddleofthestreetonlyafewblocksfromhome.

Soon after the disappearance of Miss Plarr, our household was again

establishedinitsroutine:mymothermadeastrongrecoveryfromherpseudo-illnessandmyfatherreturnedfromhisbusinessexcursion.Thehiredgirl,itseemed,hadvacatedthehousewithoutgivingnotice,aturnofeventsthatcausedlittlesurpriseinmymother.“Suchaflightycreature,”shesaidaboutourformerhousekeeper.

IsupportedthischaracterizationofMissPlarr,butofferednothingthatmightsuggest the nature of her flight. In truth, no word of mine could possibly havebroughttheleastclaritytothesituation.NordidIwishtodeepenthemysteriesofthisepisodebyrevealingwhatMissPlarrhad leftbehind inthatattic room.Formethischamberwasnowinvestedwithadourmystique,andIrevisiteditsdraftyspacesonseveraloccasionsovertheyears.EspeciallyonafternoonsinearlyspringwhenIcouldnotclosemyears tocertainsoundsthatreachedmefrombeyondagraymistorfromskiesofhissingrain,asifsomewherethetenuousformsofspiritswerethrashinginadarkandforsakenworld.

TheVoice

ofOur

NAME

TheShadowattheBottomoftheWorld

Before there occurred anything of a truly prodigious nature, the season hadmanifestlyeruptedwithsomefeverishintent.This,atleast,washowitappearedtous,whetherwehappened to live in townor somewhere outside its limits. (AndtravelingbetweentownandcountrysidewasMr.Marble,whohadbeenstudyingthe seasonal signs far longer and in greater depth thanwe, disclosing propheciesthatnoonewouldcreditatthetime.)Onthecalendarswhichhunginsomanyofour homes, the monthly photograph illustrated the spirit of the numbered daysbelowit:sheavesofcornstalksstandingbrownishandbrittleinanewlyharvestedfield,anarrowhouseandwidebarninthebackground,askyofemptylightabove,and fiery leafage frolicking about the edges of the scene. But something dark,something abysmal always finds its way into the bland beauty of such pictures,something thatusuallyholds itself inabeyance, someentwiningpresence thatwealwaysknowisthere.Anditwasexactlythispresencethathadgoneintocrisis,orperhapshadbeensecretlyinvokedbysmallshadowyvoicescallingoutinthemidstofourdreams.Therecameabitterscentintotheair,asofsweetwineturningtovinegar,andtherewasahystericbrillianceflourishedbythetreesintownaswellasthoseinthewoodsbeyond,whilealongtheroadsbetweenweretheintemperatedisplays of thorn apple, sumac, and towering sunflowers that nodded behindcrookedroadsidefences.Eventhestarsofchillnightsseemedtogrowdeliriousandtake on the tints of an earthly inflammation. Finally, there was a moonlit fieldwhereascarecrowhadbeenlefttowatchovergroundthathadlongbeenclearedyetwouldnotturncold.

Adjacent to the edge of town, the field allowed full view of itself from somanyofourwindows.Itlayspaciousbeyondtiltingfence-postsandunderabrightround moon, uncluttered save for the peaked silhouettes of corn shocks and amanlikeshapethatstoodfixedinthenocturnalsolitude.Theheadofthefigurewasslumped forward, as if a grotesque slumberhadovertaken its straw-stuffedbody,andthearmswereslacklyextendedinawaythatsuggestedsomeincrediblegesturetowardflight.Foramomentitseemedtobeaninsistentwindwhichwasflappingthose patched-up overalls and fluttering the worn flannel of those shirt sleeves.

Anditwouldseemaforcefulwind indeedwhichcausedthatstitched-upheadtonodinitsdreams.Butnothingelsejoinedinsuchmovements:thewitheredleavesofthecornstalkswerestiffandunstirring,thetreesofthedistantwoodswereinalull against the clear night. Only one thing appeared to be living where themoonlight spread across that dead field.And therewere somewho claimed thatthe scarecrow actually raised its arms and its empty face to the sky, as thoughdeclaringitselftotheheavens,whileothersthoughtthatitslegskickedwildly,likethoseofamanwhoishanged,andthattheykeptonkickingforthe longesttimebefore the thing collapsed and lay quiet.Many of us, we discovered, had beennudged from our beds that night, called as witnesses to this obscure spectacle.Afterward,thesightwehadseen,whateverwebelieveditsreason,wouldnotrestwithinusbutsnatchedattheedgesofoursleepuntilmorning.

And during the overcast hours of the following day we could not keepourselves fromvisiting theplacearoundwhichvarious rumorshadhastilyarisen.Aspilgrimswewandered into that field, scrutinizing thedebrisof itsharvest forauguralsigns,circlingthatscarecrowasifitwereagreatidolinshabbydisguise,asacred avatar out of season. But everything upon that land seemed unwilling tosupport our hunger for revelation, and our congregation was lost in fidgetingbemusement.(Withtheexception,ofcourse,ofMr.Marble,whoseeyes,werecall,were gleaming with perceptions he could not offer us in any words we wouldunderstand.)Theskyhadhiddenitselfbehindaleadenvaultofclouds,deprivingusofthecrucialelementofpuresunlightwhichweneededtofullyburnoffthemistydreamsofthepastnight.Avine-twistedstonewallalongthepropertylineofthefarmwasthesameshadeasthesky,whilethedormantvinesthemselveswereascolorlessasthestonetheyenmeshedlikeastrangenetworkofdeadveins.Butthiscalculated grayness was merely an aspect of the scene, for the colors of theabundant woods along the margins of the landscape were undulled, as if thoseradiant leavespossessed some inner sourceof illuminationor stood in contrast tosomedeepershadowwhichtheyservedtomask.

Suchconditionsnodoubtimpededoureffortstocometotermswithourfears

about thatparticular field.Aboveall thesemanifestations,however,was the factthat the earth of those harvested acres, especially in the area surrounding thescarecrow, was unnaturally warm for the season. It seemed, in fact, that a lateharvestwasdue.Andsomeinsistedthattheodddroningnoisesthatfilledtheaircouldnotbeblamedonthelegionsoflocalcicadasbutindeedroseupfromundertheground.

By the time of twilight, only a few stragglers remained in the field, amongthemtheoldfarmerwhoownedthissuddenlynotoriousacreage.Weknewthathesharedthesameimpulseastherestofuswhenhesteppeduptohisscarecrowandbegan to tear the impostor topieces.Others joined in thevandalism, pulling outhandfulsofstrawandstrippingawaytheclothesuntiltheyhadexposedwhatlaybeneaththem—thestrangeandunexpectedsight.

Fortheskeletonofthethingshouldhavebeenmerelytwocrosswiseplanks.Weverifiedthiscommonfactwithitsmaker,andhesworethatnoothermaterialshadbeenused.Yettheshapethatstoodbeforeuswasofawhollydifferentnature.Itwassomethingblackandtwistedintotheformofaman,somethingthatseemedto have come up from the earth and grown over thewooden planks like a darkfungus,consumingthestructure.Therewerenowblacklegsthathungasifcharredandwithered;therewasaheadthatsaggedlikeasackofashesuponameagerbodyof blackness; and there were thin arms stretched like knobby branches from alightning-scorchedtree.Allofthiswassupportedbyathick,darkstalkwhichrosefromtheearthandreachedintotheeffigylikeahandintoapuppet.

Andasthatsunlessdaybegantodim,ourvisionwasstillheldbythatthingwhich dangled ominously in the dusk. Its composition appeared to be of theblackestearth,ofearththathadgonestagnant somewhere in itsdepths,wherearichloamhadfesteredintoabogofshadows.Soonwerealizedthateachofushadfallensilent,entrancedbyadeepblacknesswhichseemedtoabsorboursightbutwhichexposednothing to scrutinyexceptanabyss in theoutlineofaman.Evenwhen we ventured to lay our hands on that mass of darkness, we found onlygreatermysteries.For therewas almostno tangible aspect to it,merely ahintof

materialsensation,barelythefeelofwindorwater.Itseemedtopossessnomoresubstancethanafewshiftingflames,butflamesofonlytheslightestwarmth,blackflamesthathavecurledtogethertotakeonthemoltentextureofspoiledfruit.Andtherewasavaguesenseofcirculation,as thoughakindofserpentine life swirledgently within. But no one could stand to keep his hold upon it for long beforesteppingaway.

“Damnthething,it’snotgoingtoberootedtomyland,”saidtheoldfarmer.Thenhewalkedofftowardthebarn.Andliketherestofushewastryingtorubsomethingfromthehandthathadtouchedtheshriveledscarecrow,somethingthatcouldnotbeseen.

Hereturnedtouswithanarmoryofaxes,shovels,andotherimplementsforuprootingwhathadgrownuponhisland,thiseccentricityoftheharvest.Itwouldseemtohavebeenasimpletask:thegroundwascuriouslysoftallaroundthebaseofthatblackgrowthanditstenuoussubstancecouldhardlyresistthewidebladeofthe farmer’saxe.Butwhentheoldmanswungand tried to split the thing likeapiece of firewood, the blade would not cleave. The axe entered and was closedupon, as if sunk within a viscous mire. The farmer pulled at the handle andmanagedtodislodgetheaxe,butheimmediatelyletitfallfromhishands.“Itwaspullingbackonme,”hesaidinalowvoice.“Andyouheardthatsound.”Indeed,the sound which had haunted the area all that day—like innumerable insectslaughing—didseemtoriseinpitchandintensitywhenthethingwasstruck.

Withoutaword,webegandigginguptheearthwherethatthickblackstalkwasburied.Wedugfairlydeepbeforetheapproachingnightforcedustoabandonourefforts.Yetnomatterhowfardownweburrowed, itwasnot farenoughtoreach the bottomof that sprouting blackness. Furthermore, our attempts becamehinderedbyaperversereluctance,asintheinstanceofsomeonewhoishesitanttohaveadiseasedpartofhisownbodycutaway inorder tokeepthedisease fromspreading.

Thecloudsofthatdayhadlingeredtohidethemoon,andinthedarknessourvoiceswhisperedvariousstrategies,sothatwemightyetaccomplishwhatwehad

thereto failed in doing. Nor did any of our words now rise above a whisper,althoughnoneofuswouldhavesaidwhythiswasso.

The great shadow of amoonless night encompassed the landscape, preserving usfromseeingtheoldfarmer’sfieldandwhatwastenantedthere.Andyetsomanyofthe houses in townwere in vigil throughout those dark hours. Soft lights shonethroughcurtainedwindowsalongthelengthofeachstreet,whereourtrimwoodenhomesseemedassmallasdollhousesbeneaththedarkrustlingdepthsoftheseason.Abovethegatheredroofshoveredtheglassglobesofstreetlamps,likelittlemoonssetinsidethedenseleavesofelmsandoaksandmaples.Eveninthenight,thelightshining throughthose leavesbetrayedthe festivalofcolors seethingwithin them,blazing auraswhichhadnot fadedwith thepassingdays, a plagueof colors thathad already begun to infect our dreams. This prodigy had by then becomeconnectedinourmindswiththatfieldjustoutsideoftownandthestrangegrowthwhichtherehadtakenroot.

Thus, a senseofurgency ledusback to thatplace,wherewe found theoldfarmer waiting for us as the frigid aurora of dawn appeared above the distantwoods.Oureyesscannedthefrost-powderedearthandstudiedeveryspaceamongshadows and corn shocks spread out over the land, searching for what was nolongerpresentinthescene.“It’sgoneback,”thefarmerrevealedtous.“Goneintotheearthlikesomethinghidinginitsshell.Don’twalkthere,”hewarned,pointingtothemouthofawidepit.

We gathered about the edge of this opening in the ground, gazing into itsdepths. Even full daybreak did not show us the bottom of that dark well. Ourspeculationswerebriefandfutile.Someofuspickeduptheshovelslyingnearby,asiftobeginthelongdutyoffillinginthegreataperture.“Nouseinthat,”saidthefarmer.He then founda large stoneanddropped it straightdownthe shaft.Wewaited andwaited;we put our heads close to the hole and listened. But allwe

seemed to hear were remote, humming echoes, as of countless voices of insectschattering unseen. Finally, we covered the hazardous pit with some boards andburiedthemakeshiftenclosureunderamoundofsoftdirt.“Maybethere’llbesomechangeinthespring,”someonesaid.Buttheoldfarmeronlychuckled.“Youmeanwhenthegroundwarmsup?Whydoyouthinkthoseleavesaren’tfallingthewaytheyshould?”

Itwasnot longafterthis troublingepisodethatourdreams,whichformerlyhadbeenthemerestshadowsandglimpses,swelledintofullphase.Yettheymustnot have been dreams entirely, but also excavations into the season which hadinspired them. In sleepwewere consumed by the feverish life of the earth, castamongaripe,fairlyrottingworldofstrangegrowthandtransformation.Wetookaplacewithin a darkly flourishing landscapewhere even the airwas ripened intoruddy hues and everything wore the wrinkled grimace of decay, the mottledcomplexionofoldflesh.Thefaceofthelanditselfwasknottedwithsomanyotherfaces, ones that were corrupted by vile impulses. Grotesque expressions weremolding themselves into the darkish grooves of ancient bark and the whorls ofwitheredleaf;pulpy,misshapenfeaturespeeredoutofdampfurrows;andthecrispskin of stalks and dead seeds split into amultitude of crooked smiles.Allwas afreakishmaskpaintedwith russet, rashy colors—colors that bledwith avirulentintensity,sorichandvibrantthatthingstrembledwiththeirownripeness.

But despite their gross palpability, there remained something spectral at theheartofournewdreams.Itmovedinshadow,apresencethatwasintheworldofsolidformsbutnotofit.Nordiditbelongtoanyotherworldthatcouldbenamed,unlessitwastothatrealmwhichissuggestedtousbyanautumnnightwhenfieldslay ragged in moonlight and some wild spirit has entered into things, a greataberrationsproutingforthfromachasmofmoistandfertileshadows,ahollow-eyedhowlingmalignityrisingtopresentitselftothecoldemptinessofspaceandthepalegazeofthemoon.

Anditwastothatmoonwewereforcedtolookforcomfortwhenweawoketrembling in the night, overcome by the sense that another life was taking root

withinus,seeking itsultimate incarnation inthebodieswealwaysdreamedwereourownandinvitingusintothedepthsofanextraordinaryharvest.

Certainly there was some relief when we began to discover, after manyinsecure hints and delvings, that the dreams were not a sickness restricted tosolitary individuals or families but in fact were epidemic throughout thecommunity.Nolongerwerewerequiredtodisguiseouruneasinessaswemetonthestreetsundertheluxuriantshadowsoftreesthatwouldnotcastofftheirgaudyfoliage, the mocking plumage of a strange season. We had become a race ofeccentricsandopenlydeclaredanarrayof singularwhimsand suspicions, at leastwhiledaylightallowedthisaudacity.

Honoredamonguswasthatoneoldfellow,wellknownforhisoddities,whohad anticipated our troubles weeks beforehand. As he wandered about town,wheeling the blade-sharpening grindstone by which he earned his living, Mr.Marble had spoken ofwhat he could “read in the leaves,” as if those flutteringscrapsoflushcolorwerethepagesofasecretbookinwhichheperusedgoldandcrimsonhieroglyphs.“Justlookatthem,”heurgedpassersby,“bleedingtheircolorslike that.They should be bled dry, but now they’remaking pictures. Somethinginsidetryingtoshowitself.They’reasdeadasragsnow,alllimpandflapping.Butsomething’sstillinthere.Thosepictures,doyouseethem?”

Yes,wesawthem,thoughsomewhatbelatedly.Andtheywerenotseenonlyin the chromatic designs of those deathless leaves. They could show themselvesanywhere, if always briefly.Upon a cellarwall theremight appear an ill-formedvisage among the damp and fractured stones, a hideous impersonation of a faceinfiltratingthedarkcornersofourhomes.Otherfaces,leprousmasks,wouldarisewithin the grain of paneledwalls orwooden floors, spying for amoment beforesinkingback intotheknottyshadows,withdrawingbelowthesurface.Andthereweresomanynamelesspatternsthatmightspreadthemselvesacrosstheboardsofan old fence or the side of a shed, engravings all tangled and wizened like asubterranean craze of roots and tendrils, an underworld riot of branchingconvolutions,gnarledornamentations.Yetthesedesignswerenotunfamiliartous

… for in themwe recognized the same outlines of autumnal decaywe saw ourdreams.

Liketheoldvisionarywhosharpenedknivesandaxesandcurvingscythes,wetoocouldnowreadthegreatbookofcountlesscoloredleaves.Butstillheremainedfar in advance of what was happening deep within us all. For it was he whomanifested certain idiosyncrasies of manner that would later appear in so manyothers,whethertheylivedintownorsomewhereoutsideits limits.Ofcourse,hehadalwayssethimselfapartfromusbyhiswaywardnessofspeech,hiswillingnessto utter pronouncements of dire or delightful curiosity.To a child hemight say:“The sight of the night can fly like a kite,”while someone olderwould be told:“Doesn’t have arms, but it knows how to use them.Doesn’t have a face, but itknowswheretofindone.”

Nevertheless,hepliedhistradewitheveryefficiency,pedalingthemechanismthatturnedthegrindstone,expertlyhoningeachbladeandtakinghispaylikeanymanofbusiness.Then,wenoticed,heseemedtobecomedistractedinhiswork.Inadulltrancehetouchedmetalimplementstohisspinningwheelofstone,carelessofthe sparks that flew into his face.Yet therewas also awild luminousness in hiseyes, as of a diamond-bright fever burning within him. Eventually we foundourselvesunable to abidehis company, thoughwenowattributed thismerely tosomeupsurge inhisperennial strangeness rather than toawhollyunprecedentedchange in his behavior. Itwas not until he no longer appeared on the streets oftown,oranywhereelse,thatweadmittedourfearsabouthim.

And these fears necessarily became linked to the other disruptions of thatseason, those extravagant omens which were gaining force all around us. ThedisappearanceofMr.Marblecoincidedwithanewphenomenon,onethat finallybecame apparent in the twilight of a certain daywhen all of the clustering andtenacious foliage seemed to exude a vague phosphorescence. By nightfall thisprodigy was beyond skepticism. The multicolored leaves were softly glowingagainst theblack sky, creatinganuntimelynocturnal rainbowwhich scattered itsspectraltintseverywhereanddyedthenightwithaharvestofhues:peachgoldand

pumpkin orange, honey yellow and winy amber, apple red and plum violet.Lustrouswithin their leafy shapes, the colors cast themselves across thedarknessandweresplattereduponourstreetsandourfieldsandourfaces.Everythingwasresplendentwiththepyrotechnicsofanewautumn.

That nightwe kept to ourhouses andwatched at ourwindows. Itwas nomarvel, then, that somanyofus sawtheonewhowanderedabout the townonthatiridescenteve,andwhojoinedinitsoutburstsandcelebrations.Possessedbytheecstasiesofadarkfestival,hemovedinatrance,bearinginhishandthatgreatceremonial knife whose keen edge flashed a thousand glittering dreams. Hewasseenstandingalonebeneathtreeswhosecolorsshineduponhim,staininghis faceandhistatteredclothes.Hewasseenstandingaloneintheyardsofourhouses,arigid scarecrow concocted from a patchwork of shadows. He was seen stalkingbesidehighwoodenfencesthatwerenowpaintedwithaquiveringglow.Finally,hewasseenatacertainintersectionofstreetsatthecenteroftown.

Bythen,weknewwhatneededtohappen.Theslaughteringbeasthadcomeforitsown.Aseasonwasuponusoutofallseasons,andanaberrationhadrisenthatdidnotbelongtothecourseoflifewehadalwaysknown.Itgrewoutoftheearthinafarmer’sfield,andbeneathitwasabottomlessholethatwecoveredwitha mound of dirt, thereby denying a hungering presence what it asked of us.Unsated,itwouldnowtakewhatitdesired.Asfrightenedaswewere,wealsofeltresentmentandoutrage.Fromthebeginning,therewasanexchangetowhichwehadresignedourselves:thatwhichisgivenmustonedaybegivenback.Intimetheeternal darknesswould arrive, as each of our liveswas reclaimed at its end andwent back to the earth that had borne our bodies and sustained themwith itsplenty.Butthephenomenonweconfrontedseemednothinglessthanaprematurecraving,agreedsurpassingourcovenantwithearth’sestate.Whatwewereforcedtostipulate,then,wasanother,perhapsmorefundamental,orderofbeingthanourspecieshadsuspected,evenabetrayalordeceptiononthepartofcreationitself.Allthatwaslefttouswastowonder:whoknowsallthatisinnatetothisworld,ortoany other?Why should there not be something buried deepwithin appearances,

somethingthatwearsamasktohideitselfbehindthevisibilityofnature?Butwhateveritwasthatsecreteditselfinoutwardshapesmatteredlesstous

that night than the plan it had conceived for an expertlywhetted blade and thepossessedhandthatheld it.Wehadno illusionsthatourfatecouldbeevadedoropposed.Forifthepowerorentitythathadseizedourlandcouldexerciseitswillaswehadseen,whatwastherethatitcouldnotdo?Andnowitwasrousingitselftoafuror.Morethanever,thetreesburnedwithaneerieincandescence,andthechitteringnoises that commanded the sultry airbegan rising to apitchofviciouslaughter.AsMr.Marblestoodinthecenteroftown,heeyedourhousesinturn,thematterofhismindseeminglyfocusedonwherethebloodwouldbeginandhowvoraciouswouldbetheraveningdemandedbywhatevermysteryempoweredhimasitsbrutalservant.

Likeanygroupofpersonswhofeelasuresenseofimminentmayhem,eachofus hoped that it might pass us by and the worst would be visited on others.Cowardsall,weprayed tobeoverlooked in thecomingmassacre.Butour shamewasnot long-lived.Voicesbegan tocall fromthe street to thoseofuswhowerestillinhiding.“He’sgone,”someonesaid.“Wesawhimgooffintothewoods.”Hehadraisedhisknife, itwasreported,buthishandtrembled,as ifhewas fightingagainst it.Thenhewalkedoffpastthetownlimits.“Morelikestaggered,”saidawomanwhowasholdingaspatulalikeaweapon.“You’dthinkhewaswalkinginawindstormthatwayheleanedforward,pushingandpushing.Iwasafraidthathe’dtumblebackintoMainStreet.”Amanwhocamelatetothesceneavowedtoallofus that ifMr.Marblehad stayedany longer,hewasgoing toapproachhimandsay, “Take me and spare the others. Blood is blood.” It was not difficult to seethroughhisfabrication.

For some hours, we huddled in the center of town, waiting to see ifMr.Marblewouldreturn.Thetreesaroundusseemedtobe fading intheirradiance,and the night was quiet, the din of shrill vibrations in the air having abatedentirely.Afewatatime,weturnedbacktoourhouses,whichhadnowlosttheirreekofmolderingshadows,andgraduallythetownsuccumbedtoadreamlesssleep.

Somehowweallfeltassuredthatwhatwefearedwouldhappenthatnightwouldnotcometopass.

Yetatdaybreakitbecameevidentthatsomethinghadindeedhappenedduringthenight.Everywheretheearthhadatlastturnedcold.Andthetreesnowstoodbareofleaves,allofwhichlaydarkandwitheredupontheground,asiftheirstrangelydeferred dying had finally overtaken them in a sudden rage ofmortification.Wesearched both the town and countryside for any remaining sign of the appallingseasonwehadendured.AnditwasnotlongbeforeMr.Marblewasdiscovered.

Thecorpsereposedinafield,stretchedface-downacrossamoundofdirtandalongsidetheremainsofadismantledscarecrow.Whenweturnedoverthebodywe looked upon open eyes as colorless as that ashen autumnmorning.Thenwemarked that the figure’s left arm had been slashed to the bone by the knife stillgrippedinitsrighthand.

Bloodhadflowedovertheearthandblackenedthefleshoftheself-murderedman.Butthoseofuswhohandledthat limp,nearlyweightlessbody,dippingourfingersintothedarkwound,foundnothingatallthathadthefeelingofblood.Weknew verywell, of course,what that shadowy blackness did feel like.We knewwhathad found itsway into themanbeforeus anddraggedhim into its savageworld.Hisaffinitywiththeimmanentschemesofexistencehadalwaysbeenmuchdeeperthanours.Soweburiedhimdeepinabottomlessgrave.