"It's where I belong," the little girl's voice again, but it spoke not in a little girl manner. There was only the tone.
"Things have been bad lately," Machen said. "And you're not yourself."
Laughter, horrible little girl laughter.
"I haven't been myself for years."
"Now, Caroline. play your piano. You used to play it so well. Why, you haven't touched it in years."
"Play. Play. With these!"
"You're too loud."
"I don't care. Let him hear, let him.»
A door closed sharply and the sound died off to a mumble; a word caught here and there was scattered and confused by the throb of the sea.
Next morning Machen had nothing for me, not even a smile from his borrowed collection. Nothing but coldness, his back, and a frown.
I saw little of him after coffee, and once, from below — for he stayed down there the whole day through — I thought I heard him cry in a loud voice. "Have it your way, then," and then there was the sound of a slamming door and some other sort of commotion below.
After a while I looked out at the land and the sea, and down there, striding back and forth, hands behind his back, went Machen, like some great confused penguin contemplating the far shore.
I like to think there was something more than curiosity in what I did next. Like to think I was looking for the source of my friend's agony; looking for some way to help him find peace.
I went downstairs and pulled at the door he kept locked, hoping that, in his anguish, he had forgotten to lock it back. He had not forgotten.
I pressed my ear against the door and listened. Was that crying I heard?
No. I was being susceptible, caught up in Machen's fantasy. It was merely the wind whipping about the tower.
I went back upstairs, had coffee, and wrote not a line.
So day fell into night, and I could not sleep, but finally got the strange business out of my mind by reading a novel. A rollicking good sea story of daring men and bloody battles, great ships clashing in a merciless sea.
And then, from his side of the curtain, I heard Machen creak off his cot and take to the stairs. One flight below was the door that led to the railing round about the tower, and I heard that open and close.
I rose, folded a small piece of paper into my book for a marker, and pulled back one of the window curtains. I walked around pulling curtains and looking until I could see him below.
He stood with his hands behind his back, looking out at the sea like a stern father keeping an eye on his children. Then, calmly, he mounted the railing and leaped out into the air.
I ran. Not that it mattered, but I ran, out to the railing. and looked down. His body looked like a rag doll splayed on the rocks.
There was no question in my mind that he was dead, but slowly I wound my way down the steps. and was distracted by the room. The door stood wide open.
I don't know what compelled me to look in, but I was drawn to it. It was a small room with a desk and a lot of shelves filled with books, mostly occult and black magic. There were carpentry tools on the wall, and all manner of needles and devices that might be used by a tailor. The air was filled with an odd odor I could not place, and on Machen's desk, something that was definitely not tobacco smoldered away.
There was another room beyond the one in which I stood. The door to it was cracked open. I pushed it back and stepped inside. It was a little child's room filled thick with toys and such: jack-in-the-boxes, dolls, kid books, and a toy piano. All were covered in dust.
On the bed lay a teddy bear. It was ripped open and the stuffing was pulled out. There was one long strand of hair hanging out of that gutted belly, just one, as if it were the last morsel of a greater whole. It was the color of honey from a fresh-robbed hive. I knew what the smell in the ashtry was now.
I took the hair and put a match to it, just in case.
The Job
This little short-short was written for "Razored Saddles", and was supposed to be a kind of modern Western. It doesn't entirely fill the bill on that account, but I'm proud of it. A short film was made of it, and my son, Keith, and I even appear in the background of scenes. It wasn't bad, and is now on video and DVD. It was fun to watch your characters brought to life by actors, one of which was an Elvis impersonator out of Las Vegas. Instead of the older Elvis, they changed the part to fit a younger Elvis, because, well, they had a younger, thinner, Elvis impersonator.
BOWER PULLED THE SUN VISOR DOWN AND looked in the mirror there and said, "You know, hadn't been for the travel, I'd have done alright. I could even shake my ass like him. I tell you, it drove the women wild. You should have seen 'em."
"Don't shake it for me," Kelly said. "I don't want to see it. Things I got to do are tough enough without having to see that."
Bower pushed the visor back. The light turned green. Kelly put the gas to the car and they went up and over a hill and turned right on Melroy.
"Guess maybe you do look like him," Kelly said. "During his fatter days, when he was on the drugs and the peanut butter."
"Yeah, but these pocks on my cheeks messes it up some. When I was on stage I had makeup on 'em. I looked okay then."
They stopped at a stop sign and Kelly got out a cigarette and pushed in the lighter.
"A nigger nearly tail-ended me here once," Kelly said. "Just come barreling down on me." He took the lighter and lit his smoke. "Scared the piss out of me. I got him out of his car and popped him some. I bet he was one careful nigger from then on." He pulled away from the stop sign and cruised.
"You done one like this before? I know you've done it, but like this?"
"Not just like this. But I done some things might surprise you. You getting nervous on me?"
"I'm alright. You know, thing made me quit the Elvis imitating was travel, cause one night on the road I was staying in this cheap motel, and it wasn't heated too good. I'd had those kind of rooms before, and I always carried couple of space heaters in the trunk of the car with the rest of my junk, you know. I got them plugged in, and I was still cold, so I pulled the mattress on the floor by the heaters. I woke up and was on fire. I had been so worn out I'd gone to sleep in my Elvis outfit. That was the end of my best white jumpsuit, you know, like he wore with the gold glitter and all. I must have been funny on fire like that, hopping around the room beating it out. When I got that suit off I was burned like the way you get when you been out in the sun too long."
"You gonna be able to do this?"
"Did I say I couldn't?"
"You're nervous. I can tell, way you talk."
"A little. I always got nervous before I went on stage too, but I always came through. Crowd came to see Elvis, by God, they got Elvis. I used to sign autographs with his name. People wanted it like that. They wanted to pretend, see."
"Women mostly?"
"Uh huh."
"What were they, say, fifty-five?"
"They were all ages. Some of them were pretty young."
"Ever fuck any of "em?"
"Sure, I got plenty. Sing a little "Love Me Tender" to them in the bedroom and they'd do whatever I wanted."
"Was it the old ones you was fucking?"
"I didn't fuck no real old ones, no. Whose idea is it to do things this way anyhow?"
"Boss, of course. You think he lets me plan this stuff? He don't want them chinks muscling in on the shrimping and all."
"I don't know, we fought for these guys. It seems a little funny."
"Reason we lost the war over there is not being able to tell one chink from another and all of them being the way they are. I think we should have nuked the whole goddamned place. Went over there when it cooled down and stopped glowing, put in a fucking Disneyland or something."