Nightmares From a Lovecraftian Mind Page 2

  Or, Roux contemplated, it had made him the outsider.

  There were other people in the park and Roux knew they were trying to hide their suspicious looks.

  He also knew one of those people was going to kill him.

  How he knew this, he didn’t know. It was a question Roux could not or would not answer. If the explanation was there inside his mind it was hidden under some unconscious blanket of fear and self-illusion. It was a truth worth hiding from his awareness. It was not a truth that was going to manifest itself like some quant introspective epiphany. Roux simply knew that someone in the vicinity of the bench was going to extinguish his life right there in the park.

  But he also knew he could not leave the park.

  Leaving would upset things, upset the order that had been predestined by whatever powers moved destinies around like shells in a confidence game. Roux’s fate was sealed in a windless park with a book no longer readable while he was surrounded by people who looked upon him like a pariah. Perhaps they were right in their judgment. Perhaps he was something to be shunned, feared, and slaughtered. Perhaps he was, as he knew some people referred to him as, the “freak on the bench.”

  Roux had never considered himself a friendly person or even minimally a social one. His interactions were always brief and without ceremony. He could not remember the last time he had sincerely wished someone a “good morning” yet he could remember dozens of times within the last month in which others had wished him that very thing. His lack of social skills had long ago ceased to bring guilt but he sometimes regretted not being successful in trying to avoid those interactions so that he would not have to meditate on his obscene lack of conformity.

  And perhaps now the chickens were coming home to roost, as they say. He was finally going to reap the rewards of his lifestyle: his complete and utter aversion to being bothered.

  Roux’s eyes perused each potential assassin in the park. There were two sets of grandparents with their boisterous spawn-of-their-spawn. Could it be them? That would be a nice trick, sending out the least intimidating murderer. Oh, but that would be too obvious, wouldn’t it? No, it was unlikely to be the grandparents. They were too old; you couldn’t count on them to move quickly enough.

  But could it be the grandchildren?

  There were five of them. It was difficult to tell their ages but Roux thought two looked under three years old while the other three looked to be between ten and twelve, a suitable age to contemplate killing someone like Roux. Children that age often could not separate fantasy from reality and could make very capable assassins. Yes, it could very well be one, or more, of the children.

  He wondered how he would react if it was indeed one of them. Would he embrace death at the hands of a child? After all, who better to exact judgment upon him then a person who is innocent and full of hope and potential? They would simply be making room in the world by snuffing him out. Would they actually comprehend their actions? Would they think it was all a game and that Roux’s death was simply the end of the round? Would they expect him to get up after they had plunged a knife (or pulled a gun’s trigger) and caused his extinction? Roux wondered all of this and found himself even more frightened than before. Youth had never seemed so terrifying.

  He looked back down at his book.

  He was on a new chapter but could not read it due to the previous transformation. To compensate, he imagined it was a chapter about the distribution of goods and how that affected building types in industrial parks. Some of the foreign words were fading on the page while others were blinking to an unknown rhythm. Perhaps they were signaling the return of some wind which would come by and rescue the tome from Roux’s hands.

  He wished that was not the case. Despite the danger he knew he was in and the obscurity of the words, he still wanted to read, still wanted to finish the book he had chosen at random on the shelves he had set up randomly the night before. If he was to die before reading the book, he would feel incomplete. Death itself would feel incomplete.

  Death would feel unfair.

  Roux figured if he was patient and accommodating despite his terror, then maybe things would work out in a complete way.

  There was a sound behind him, something that resembled the rustling of leaves. Had the wind returned? Roux looked over his shoulder quickly as if the sound had startled him even though it had not. A part of him wanted to startle the wind so he may have the upper hand in the proceedings.

  But it was not leaves being scattered by the wind. It was a young mother with her child. The child, a young girl of about five years old, was taking small toys out of a plastic bag. That it is the sound Roux had heard: small hands grabbing for toys in a plastic bag.

  It reminded him of his last surgery. The doctors had searched through his body looking for something, anything, to justify his excruciating pain and their extravagant fees. According to them, they found nothing. That didn’t prevent them from billing Roux in the amount of four-thousand dollars and eighty-three cents which was approximately four-thousand more dollars than Roux really had to spend.

  The young girl with the plastic bag stopped rummaging around. She stared at Roux and brought her hand up. Her palm opened, revealing the toy she had chosen. It was a mechanical duck.

  “Quack quack,” the girl said. “Quack quack.”

  Roux was petrified. His body tensed and he was back in surgery, unable to move. Someone was going to try to heal him: the little girl or the doctor or both.

  “Just do it already,” Roux said, directing the words to the girl and to the doctor if he was somehow listening in the windless air.

  “Quack,” the girl said.

  “That’s what I thought.” Roux let his book slide out of his fingers and fall to the concrete.

  III. Adactylous Arms of the House

  Franco was sick of selling magazine subscriptions door-to-door but was far too unmotivated to look for another job. Besides, he needed the exercise. His midsection had grown into a spare tire and his thighs were starting to rub together when he walked. Luckily his face hadn’t gained any weight but still, he really did need the exercise.

  He had been in town for two days but hadn’t sold a single subscription. That wasn’t totally unexpected. A lot of these medium-sized towns were hard to crack but there was a good chance he’d stumble on a whole neighborhood that would make the trip worthwhile. Housewives who were interested in the latest tabloids or a generic sports magazine for their already-preoccupied husbands. Young women interested in the newest fashion despite having an income insufficient enough to keep up with it. They were all potential customers.

  The house Franco stood in front of looked at least a hundred years old, a true treasure of the Victorian age. He figured he’d like to live in a similar house if he ever made enough money. He knew it was not a realistic goal but it was still something that crept in the back of his mind from time to time. Until then he would have to be satisfied with living in a one-room apartment over a garage of a farmhouse.

  Franco knocked because he hated ringing the doorbell. It was so impersonal, so abrupt. A knock was flesh-on-wood and was friendlier, more personal. He found it was very successful in warming up to potential customers.

  The only answer to his knock was an unidentifiable noise. Franco knocked again.

  He heard the clip-clopping of high heels across a wood floor.

  The door opened with a groan and a woman in her forties answered. Her hair was severe: deep black with all straight strands and sharp angles. “Yes?”

  “Hello, mam. My name is Franco and I’m selling magazine subscriptions…”

  “I’ll stop you right there.” The woman opened the door wide, revealing her enormous breasts that tested the fabric of her blouse to its limits. “First mistake you made was calling me ‘mam’. No woman, no matter what her age, likes to be called mam.”

  “I, uh…”

  “Call a woman ‘miss’ or use their name if you know it.”

  Franco blushed.
He’d met some assertive customers in his line of work but none who were forceful about something so insignificant. His face was on fire, his heart pounding his confidence into pulp. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning around to walk away because he knew he would not be able to go through with the sales pitch without sounding completely embarrassed.

  The woman stepped out onto the porch. “Hey, I didn’t say you had to leave. I don’t recall telling you I wasn’t interested in your magazines.”

  Franco stopped and turned to see her with a small smile on her face. He also saw the shape of her large nipples poking out of her blouse. “Oh.” He forced the grin he used to charm female customers.

  “Come on in,” she said. “I’m Eurice.”

  “Hi Eurice,” he said, following her into the house. “Thanks for your time.” He walked behind her, his eyes instinctively moving to her rear end as it strained against the skirt.

  When Franco was able to move his eyes away from the woman, the first thing he noticed was the lack of décor. Nothing in the house indicated that anyone was actually living there. However, there also was no indication the woman was in the process of moving: no boxes or piles of belongings prepared to be packed.

  “Would you like some water?” Eurice said.

  “Yes, thank you.” He knew better not to decline any sort of beverage or food in this sort of situation. When hospitality was extended, a salesman should always take advantage.

  Eurice walked to the kitchen and out of sight. Franco heard the clinking of glasses and the running of a sink. More clinking and then a cough. She came back into the living room holding a cloudy glass of water.

  “It’s just bubbles,” she said. “The water pressure in the sink is incredible.”

  Franco took the glass and tried looking into the water without appearing to be suspicious.

  Eurice said, “Have a seat on the couch and you can show me what you’re selling.”

  Franco held the glass with his right hand, hoping it wouldn’t slip from his weak grip. His arthritis had been acting up lately.

  Eurice held her gaze on his hand and said, “Is your hand okay?”

  “Oh,” Franco said. “Uh, yes. Thank you.” He looked for a place to set it down before he was tempted to take a sip. He sat down on the couch that lacked any style or design while he watched Eurice sit across from him on a plain white chair. In between them was a table made out of unfinished wood. Franco placed the glass on it and opened his messenger bag.

  He said, “We have quite a few titles to choose from, some at a considerable discount. In fact we have the largest selection of discounted magazines in the state.” He pulled out a full-color catalog of titles his company offered. Eurice took the booklet and proceeded to peruse it for several minutes.

  She stopped on the last page. “Well, this is interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This magazine here,” she said, sitting up straight. “It has my brother’s name on it.” She handed it to Franco.

  The catalog page showed the cover for the second issue of IMPERCEPTUS with an article by Maurent Drake. Franco said, “Wow, that’s really something.”

  “Yes, I haven’t spoken to my brother in quite a while so I didn’t know anything about this.”

  “What’s it about?” He perused the cover but had no idea about the subject of the article. “Loop panic? Imperium waves? Never heard of that sort of thing.”

  Eurice rolled her eyes. “Same old junk he’s been writing about since he was a child. Frankly I have no idea what it all means.”

  Franco knew this was the flashpoint of his sale. Either she’d kick him out for reminding her of her estranged brother or she’d end up buying something from him as a result of feeling a connection since she had shared some personal information.

  As soon as he was going to inquire a little more about her brother, there was a sound from upstairs like a sack of stones dropping to the floor.

  Eurice said, “That’s just my nephew.” She gestured to the catalog. “My brother’s son.”

  “Do you think he’d like to look at the catalog? I mean, at this magazine his father is in?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t think that would be appropriate.” She stared at Franco. He didn’t know whether he should hand her back the catalog or just get up to leave. After several minutes of staring in silence, she said, “You haven’t touched your water.”

  Franco looked down at the glass. It was still cloudy. He leaned forward and grabbed the glass, brought it to his mouth, and let the warm water meet his lips.

  Eurice was still staring as he took a sip and swallowed.

  Footsteps stomped down the stairs. Franco looked at the young man entering the room. Eurice said, “Lucasse, something wrong?”

  The young man said, “No, I just heard you talking to someone. Who is this?”

  Franco stood up and offered his hand. “I’m Franco. I’m, uh, selling magazine subscriptions.”

  Lucasse took a step back. “I heard someone mention my father.”

  “Uh, yeah, he….” Franco said but was interrupted by Eurice.

  “Looks like your father wrote an article,” she said, grabbing the catalog and throwing it at Lucasse’s feet. “Last page.”

  Franco watched as the young man slowly bent down, picked up the catalog, and looked at the cover of the magazine.

  “Can I order this?” Lucasse said.

  “Well, the catalog is for subscriptions to each magazine not a specific issue,” Franco said.

  “But I want this one. Where can I get this one?” Lucasse’s fingers were tracing invisible shapes on the page.

  “Uh, well, I can try to maybe find something to point you in the right direction. Honestly, my company doesn’t have much to do with the individual magazines. We’re more on the distribution side of things but I’ll see what I can do.”

  Eurice stood up. “You don’t have to do that. My nephew has more than enough reading material.”

  “I want to read the article, Aunt Eurice,” Lucasse said, rolling up the catalog and placing it in his pants pocket.

  “Give that back, please,” Eurice said, her face turning harsh and shadowy. Franco thought she looked like twenty years old than before. Wrinkles appeared where there had been none.

  He said, “Oh, it’s okay. I have plenty of catalogs. He can keep it.”

  “No, it’s not okay,” Eurice said. “It’ll only fuel his obsession and allow for another one of his…..episodes.”

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Lucasse said. “I have every right to know about this.”

  Franco watched as the young man and his aunt stared each other down. The living room grew darker, black tendrils creeping up the walls and across the ceiling. Even Lucasse’s face was becoming covered in blackness.

  While the room was filling with octopus ink darkness, Franco felt his legs buckle and his stomach turning inside out. He fell to the floor, his nose hitting the wood like a hammer. The last thing he saw was Eurice’s dark high heels clip-clop towards his face, finally engulfing him in a warm, malodorous abyss.

  Then: tulips.

  IV. Of Obdormition and Demise

  Roux could see them at the edge of the park. There were three of them. A woman and two men. What were they waiting for? They were just standing there. He couldn’t be so sure they were watching him but thought so.

  The other people around Roux started to spread out away from him as if predicting the events that surely were going to transpire. There was going to be blood spilt in the park. There was going to be a body put to rest in a most violent way.

  Roux looked away from the three strangers. His eyes went down to his book which was now curling away on the cement like a small, pulpy beast. The words on the pages were unrecognizable.

  His thoughts turned away from the three on the edge of the park.

  He thought of his brother Maurent and how their relationship had been strained over the last few years. Roux cou
ldn’t identify one particular reason as to why it turned out that way only that it involved something Maurent had written. What was it again? An article? A book? Roux couldn’t remember. That period of time was submerged in his head under eight years of thick, regret-laden dust and psychological abuse.

  He couldn’t blame his brother entirely for the state of things. Roux had done many terrible things in his adulthood, things he had tried prying from his brain through the use of alcohol, rituals, and pills. His life had taken a turn for the worst on the dawn of his eighteenth birthday when Maurent had taken him to the beach to present Roux with a gift.

  It was a gift of hardened love and abuse, gritty like the sand they stood on, the sand they knelt on as Maurent attempted to make Roux pray to some abstract, philosophical mutation. It did not work out as planned. Though Maurent wanted to ready his brother for an oceanic mactation, Roux had not been so easily swayed by his words. He was skeptical. He was, at heart, an unbeliever.

  Maurent thought his brother had been ungrateful and Roux could not help but agree. He had said terrible, terrible things and his brother had written terrible, terrible words. Those words opened up a pit of psychic masochism: Maurent falling into despair over his printed pages while Roux agonized over his verbal destruction. It was a stormy period of mutual torment.

  But why had Roux thought of his brother at this moment? What about the park (and his impending death at the hands of one or more “strangers”) was rekindling those sour memories? Roux has occasionally entertained the idea that his brother would ultimately cause his death but had always believed it was just his paranoia running rampant in the funhouse of his ritualized mind.

  There was a connection there for sure. Everything that was going to happen was somehow tied to his brother. Roux fell forward onto the ground, his knees digging into the cement.

  “Maurent.”

  He spoke the word into the air, hoping the wind would finally come and carry it into oblivion.