The Collected Short Fiction by Thomas Ligotti Part 4

First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994 The Phantom of the wax museum is walking down the street with his new girlfriend. Even though he is wearing a benignly handsome face, which he designed himself, there remains something repellent and sinister in his appearance. "No decent girl would go out with him," mutters an old woman as the couple pa.s.ses by.

The phantom of the wax museum was once a gentle and sensitive artist who worked very hard, shaping beautiful lifelike representations of figures from history and from modern times. A prosperous craftsman with no head for finance, he was cheated by his business partner and left for dead in a burning studio, where his masterpieces in wax melted one by one into nothing.

He, however, escaped, though in a badly disfigured condition, and from that day on he was mentally deranged, a s.a.d.i.s.tic demon artist who every so often submerged young women in vats of boiling wax and afterward displayed them for profit to the unsuspecting patrons of his museum. "A genius!" the public exclaimed.

The phantom of the wax museum is about to press the b.u.t.ton that will cause his new girlfriend, presently unconscious, to descend into one of those famous bubbling vats. But quite unexpectedly some plainclothes detectives burst into the room and stop him. They rescue the girl and corner her would-be killer at the top of the stairs, just above the eagerly gurgling vat.

Suddenly, in this moment of great stress, the phantom of the wax museum sees a gentle and sensitive face in his mind's eye. He remembers now, he remembers who he was so long ago. In fact, he remembers precious little else. What was he doing and who were these people at the top of those stairs.

"I beg your pardon," he starts to say to the detectives," could you please tell me-" But the youngest of the detectives is a little quick to fire his gun, and the evil phantom of the wax museum goes over the rail, disappearing beneath the creamy surface of the furiously seething vat.

One of the older detectives stares down into the busy pool of wax and in a rare reflective moment says:" If there's any justice in this life, that monster'll boil for eternity. He killed at least five lovely girls!"

But at the moment of his death the fortunate phantom of the wax museum could remember only one girl: his beautiful Marie Antoinette, which he'd finished a few hours ago, or so it seemed, and which he knew he would never see again.

The Perilous Legacy of Emily St. Aubert, Inheritress of Udolpho (1985).

First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994 Emily St. Aubert has had a very difficult life. When only a young woman she sees the death of both her parents: her mother, whom Emily finds out was not her real mother, and her wise father, whom Emily adored. "O Emily, O Emily," cries her boyfriend Valancourt when she is carted off by the menacing Montoni to the somewhat broken down but nonetheless imposing castle named Udolpho.

At Udolpho there are a mult.i.tude of secrets: secret pa.s.sages, secret stairways, secret motives, secret murders, tracks of blood from secret persons, moans from secret chambers, from secret nightmares, Italian secrets, Italian love, Italian hate and revenge.

At one point Emily sees the wax replica of a corpse with a worm-eaten face which she takes to be real. And it might as well have been. Eventually Emily is rescued by Valancourt, delivered from Udolpho, and not long afterwards the pair are married. But complications arise.

Emily and Valancourt seem made for each other. Both have been through quite a lot but neither has been poisoned by their sorrow, their suffering, or by months spent deep in the midst of vice. Their simple, everyday natures remain unharmed and intact.

At night, however, Valancourt lies awake in bed, involuntarily eavesdropping on the things Emily unknowingly whispers in her sleep: secret things. After a few weeks of this, Valancourt is looking very haggard. In a matter of months he is hopelessly insane, and one day goes running off for parts unknown.

Emil now spends much of her time alone. To occupy herself she writes poems, as she has always done, atmospheric little pieces like "To Melancholy", "To the Bat", "To the Winds", and "Song of the Evening Hour."

Sometimes she cannot help asking herself if she was not deceived from the very start about the virtues of Valancourt. Why, he was no better nailed together than that crumbling old castle of Montoni's. That awful, terrible place.

What was its name again? Ah, yes...Udolpho.

The Eternal Devotion of the Governess to the Residents of BIy (1985).

First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994 The Governess is writing an account of her experiences at Bly, where she had charge of two parentless children by the names of Flora and Miles. She was hired for the job by the children's uncle, who had an office in Harley Street and with whom the governess fell hopelessly in love during the course of a very brief interview.

The governess writes of her arrival at Bly, of her amazement at the two beautiful children, and of her resolve to devote herself body and soul to the upbringing in hopes that someday her devotion would be reciprocated by the man in Harley Street.

The governess now writes of the horrors at Bly: how the ghosts of two former retainers, Miss Jessel and Peter Quint, are trying to possess the souls of the children and through them perpetuate the unholy romantic alliance that this notorious twosome carried in life.

The governess sees these horrible fiends outside windows, in the shadows at the foot of a stairway, and across the serene waters of a pond. But she conquers her terror; at all costs she must protect the children!

The governess thinks she has prevailed over the evil spirits. The children are to leave Bly, and it only remains to pack up Miles in the coach where his sister now waits for him. The dead, however, are very tenacious and do not easily give up the pleasure of unexpectedly appearing at windows.

Inside the house Miles is standing fixed with fear when the governess comes to collect him. Staring at him through the paned windows of a pair of French doors is the face of Quint, while hovering over him is the face of the governess, and each is making a bid for the boy's soul. But Miles' soul is already shattered beyond repair, wrecked. Tragically the ensuing struggle causes his heart to stop beating. He lies dead in the arms of the governess.

With a great feeling of pain and loss the governess finishes her memoir of that dreadful episode at Bly. Despite the catastrophic outcome of her first position as a governess she will manage to secure employment at other houses. And she will live, in good health, to a ripe old age.

But the man from Harley Street never comes, handsome little Miles is dead, and the governess will not see Bly again... as long as she lives.

The Unnatural Persecution, by a Vampire, of Mr. Jacob J. (1985).

First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994 A young schoolteacher, who writes a little poetry on the side, is coming home to the boardinghouse where he lives on the top floor. A red-haired girl, one of his pupils, runs up to him just as he steps onto the old boardinghouse stairway.

"Have you heard about the vampire, Mr. Jacob ?" she asks him, squinting in the bright afternoon sunlight. The girl goes on to describe the vampire and its activities as they in turn have been related to her, princ.i.p.ally from eyewitness accounts. "Of course, I know all that," replies Mr. Jacob. "Well, see you tomorrow," he says crus.h.i.+ng a cigarette underfoot. (He doesn't like his students to see him smoking if he can help it.) That night Mr. Jacob can't sleep. He knows this business with the vampire is just nonsense, but in the middle of the night certain things can get on your nerves that normally you wouldn't think twice about. He drags himself out of bed and opens the only window in his room. How quiet everything is at this hour. Somehow it seems as if he's just noticed this for the first time.

The next day the reports about the vampire are verified by several honest and reliable persons. The body of a man from out of town was found that morning in his hotel room- drained of blood. Mr. Jacob, along with many others, concurs that he felt something strange was up the last few days...something, well, something he couldn't exactly put his finger on.

Tonight Mr. Jacob is taking no chances. He sits by the sole window in his room hour after hour with a large crucifix across his lap. Every little while he forgets himself and dozes off, but each time he manages to startle his mind back to alertness with just one thought about the vampire.

As the days go by, the situation worsens. Many more bodies are found drained of blood. Mr. Jacob hasn't had a decent rest since this terrible season of death began. All night long he sits gazing deep into the darkness beyond that idiotic little window. And he's smoking too much. One day he coughs up some blood into his hand-right in the middle of a grammar lesson!

Due to the inherent limits of the human will, Mr. Jacob falls sound asleep one night by the window. Maybe he is only dreaming when he hears these little taps on the gla.s.s, but he wakes up just the same. "No," he screams, leaping from the chair and knocking the crucifix to the floor. He is s.h.i.+vering violently, as if some icy wind has rushed into the room and is tearing its way straight through him. But there is no wind. Outside the window all is quiet and dead.

The next day there is good news. The vampire has moved on, everyone is safe once more. Mr. Jacob opens his window for the first time in weeks on a radiant morning in early spring. Children are singing for joy in the street. He suddenly closes the window and turns back toward his little room.

For Mr. Jacob knows that everyone is suffering from a false sense of security. He stays on his guard. Night upon night he waits by the window, thinking one day the vampire will return....But for some reason she never does.

Late that summer n.o.body in town is surprised to hear that one evening Mr. Jacob lost his balance and fell onto the street far below. He'd started drinking heavily, poor man. An unfortunate mishap... and just as autumn semester was to begin!

The Superb Companion of Andre de V., Anti-Pygmalion (1985).

First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994 Tonight, as he stands smoking a cigarette and staring out his window upon a hazy avenue, M. Andre de V. has accomplished the supreme feat of the romantic dreamer. From only the slightest experience with a real woman-Mlle. LeMieux, the pursuit of whom would have been a futility-he has fas.h.i.+oned an ideal one of his imagination.

She is seated in a corner of the room: wise, beautiful, and content, she is the perfect complement to her creator's temper and the unflawed realization of his unspeakably complex prerequisites. He smiles at her and she smiles back, faultlessly reflecting both the kind and degree of sentiment in the original smile. This and similar experiments have helped M. Andre de V. pa.s.s a great deal of time recently.

Later that night a letter is delivered to the room of M. Andre de V. He pours himself a brandy, lights his last cigarette (he forgot to buy some that afternoon), and opens the envelope with a sharp, silvery letter- opener.

Dear Andre (the letter begins):.

There's some rather sad news tonight, though maybe not so sad from your point of view. Mlle. LeMieux has finally succ.u.mbed to her illness. (Did you even know she was sick?) As she was among our circle of acquaintances, I thought you would like to know.

P.S. How's your new play coming along?

M. Andre de V. reads the letter about a dozen times, until the message really sinks in. Then, still holding the letter in his hand, he returns to his position at the window. Without turning toward the phantasm in the corner, he says to it: "Go away! Please go away. There's not much point anymore."

But the beautiful specter does not disappear as commanded. Having already sensed its maker's unspoken desire, she takes the sharp letter-opener from where he left it on the table and buries it deep in the back of his soft neck.

The Ever-Vigilant Guardians of Secluded Estates (1985).

First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994 A young man with a spa.r.s.e mustache is sitting in a large chair in the innermost chamber of his large house, where all his life he has lived well in solitude off the fortunes made by his ancestors. For him, simply drifting among rooms of dreamy half-lights kills the better part of any given day.

Tonight, however, he is disturbed by certain mental images he is not used to experiencing: brightly lit places, crowds of people, and soft laughter. "Well, what do you think of that?" he thinks, or perhaps even says out loud.

Now an old servant walks into the room, and the young man watches him as he sets down a drink in a gla.s.s of finely carved crystal. The young man hasn't asked for this refreshment but he takes a few sips anyway, just out of pure courtesy to the thoughtful old domestic. The servant stands by, and the young man keeps an eye on him. When the servant bends down to collect the empty gla.s.s, the young man detects a slightly sour odor and seems to be viewing the servant's gaunt face for the very first time. For some reason he is horrified by the sight.

"I think I'll go out tonight," says the young man as he makes a deliberately impulsive bound to his feet. "Where will you go?" asks the servant in a quiet voice. "That's no business of yours, now is it?" answers the young man. "Where will you go?" the servant repeats, a total lack of expression on his old servant's face.

"Insolent old fool," thinks the young man as he steps into the next room. But the next room is exactly like the one he has just left. And seated in a chair before him is a young man with a spa.r.s.e mustache.

At this rate neither of us will ever make it out the front door, he thinks. And it was too late anyway. Long ago it was already too late, sighs the old servant as he drifts through his h.e.l.l of dreamy half-lights on his way to fetch the new master a drink he did not ask for.

The Scream: From 1800 to the Present (1985).

First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994 Near the close of the eighteenth century, William B. is approaching his destination of a saloon on Boston's waterfront. As he pa.s.ses through a narrow alleyway someone jumps him from behind and wraps a length of thin but strong rope around his neck.

While he is being choked to death he looks up and can see the moon over the tall shops and houses lining the alley. He knows he is going to die and cannot believe the injustice of it on almost every level: that he should die before he'd had a drink that night, that he should die without realizing a single one of the marvelous dreams which had sustained his life in the first place.

In his final moments he would have settled for the small satisfaction of releasing a scream to relieve somewhat the purely physical anguish of being strangled to death. But his murderer, an expert waylayer, is pulling the rope too tight and not a sound is able to escape from William B.'s throat. Later that night a pack of huge wharf rats nibbles the body before it is discovered by some local prost.i.tutes.

The spirits of murder victims are notorious avengers. They are well-known for lingering in the human world and "walking the earth" in search of their slayers. Suppose, however, the spirit has no idea what its murderer looks like? The spirit could haunt the scene of violence and perhaps nearby areas, hoping to pick up some gossip, a chance lead; but beyond this there isn't much that can be done.

The spirit has such a marvelous revenge planned: to let loose its terrible scream, now an instrument of supernatural ferocity and horror, into the face of its murderer, killing him in one of the worst ways imagineable. But the strangler is never found. Eventually the pa.s.sing years exceed the longest possible human life span. The murderer has undoubtedly been dead for some time. And how many years still remain to the spirit, haunted by its unfulfilled quest for vengeance!

The spirit happens to settle in a secluded but very pleasant looking home, where undisturbed and undisturbing it watches the generations come and go. Always, though, the spirit feels the suppressed scream it carries inside and the hopelessness of finding someone for whom this scream of his would mean something.

The spirit has a lot of time to think and wonder why he has never met others in a state similar to his. This would be some compensation. But the idea, like the pa.s.sing generations, comes and goes and is never pursued very diligently. His mind hasn't really been clear at all since those last lucid moments of dying.

Toward the end of the twentieth century the spirit begins paying midnight visits to a beautiful and apparently lonely girl who lives in the house of well-preserved seclusion. It seems she has fallen in love with the apparition that keeps her company in the dark hours of her solitude.

The spirit is now thankful for its fate, realizing that it is his anguished and imprisoned scream sustaining his presence. While he has the scream within him he can stay on earth and be seen. He now holds it inside like something extremely precious.

One night the spirit is keeping his appointment by the girl's bedside when he sees it's all been a mistake: the girl is neither lonely nor in love with him, though she is more beautiful than ever. And someone else is lying next to her in the bed.

This is both a torment and a relief for the spirit. Finally he has a reason to let go of his terrible scream, finally it will mean something. It would annihilate the both of them while they slept. "Did you hear something?" the man sleepily asks the girl. "Just barely," she replies with her eyes still closed. "Go back to sleep," whispers the man. "It was probably nothing."

And it was nothing. For the spirit now suffers the horrific revelation that after so many years the scream itself has died its own death, and has left him not only utterly alone, but also completely imperceptible behind his private wall of eternity.

The Transparent Alias of William Wilson, Sportsman and Scoundrel (1985).

First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994 William Wilson has a namesake who looks exactly like him, walks like him, and is equal in any game of wits. They first meet at Dr. Bransbys school for boys, in England. There Wilson's namesake is constantly thwarting his designs, challenging his superior status among their peers, and on the whole making things difficult for him. Hounded beyond all human endurance, William Wilson one night takes leave of the school, aborting his academic career but at least ridding himself of his obnoxious twin.

Later on, however, Wilson's namesake intrudes upon his life at the most inopportune times: to put a damper on his debauched parties at Eton by reminding him that immoderate and late hours are bad for the soul; to expose his cheating at cards at Oxford; and overall to meddle in his nefarious affairs in most of the major cities of Europe (including, of all places, Moscow). Eventually there is a showdown with swords between the two William Wilsons, and William Wilson, the original, wins. Before he dies, the bloodied namesake utters the awesome p.r.o.nouncement that William Wilson has killed only himself, not to mention all hopes of ever becoming a sane and decent individual. Of course Wilson realizes that his twin was right all along, and soon after this regrettable duel he sits down to write the tragic story of his life as an apology and perhaps a warning to others.

While he's writing, there's a knock at the door. At first Wilson doesn't bother to answer it (write, Wilson, write), but the knocking is so persistent that he finally does. Standing in the doorway, dripping wet from the storm outside and suddenly illuminated by a flash of lightning, is William Wilson's namesake, back from the dead.

"May I come in?" he asks. Wilson steps aside in amazement and allows the gory twin to enter. He has some trouble scrounging up a chair for his guest (the house was rented cheap but isn't much on furnis.h.i.+ngs), though at last he turns up a small unvarnished stool, which the other Wilson checks for splinters before sitting down.

"I've found out a few things since the last time we saw each other," Wilson's namesake begins. "You'll recall that I was always admonis.h.i.+ng you to change your ways and so on and so forth? Well, I know now that my efforts were actually quite pointless. There was nothing I could do or you could do or anyone else."

"No," protests Wilson. "It was my own will," he insists, "and nothing else which condemned me."

"I'm afraid you are wrong, so wrong," continues Wilson's exasperated namesake, shaking his blood- stained head. "It's not just you, it's everyone. You're just a little fish, my friend. You think you were out to get yourself, you think you were perverse. I don't want to play the alarmist, but I've been some places and seen some things and believe me there's nothing but perversity. The machinery of this place operates entirely on the principle of friction, my friend."

"I've lost the hope of heaven," interjects William Wilson. "Heaven, forget heaven," replies the namesake. "Heaven will be when the big, brainless William Wilson has torn everything up so bad that it'll have to suck the whole mess back in and start over. The point I want to make here is that now that we know what we're up against, maybe we can make our peace and perhaps be of some comfort to each other. This is a really unique opportunity. Maybe-"