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ISSN 1757-5419Issue 7 – January 2010

The Night Clerk By Ray Garton Page 2

Stretcher Of Faces By Fred Venturini Page 6Illustrated By Russ Root

Fallout By Jesse Click Page 11Illustrated By matlocktheartist

Poetic Justice By Brian Kutco Page 15

The Book Says By Michelle Howarth Page 18Illustrated By Sara Holt

Aftertaste By A. David Zapata Page 22Illustrated By Zak Greene

The Hedgehog Prince By Rhian Waller Page 26

Lucky Number By J. David Fry Page 29

A Stone’s Throw By K.J. Hannah Greenberg Page 32

From Behind the Tablecloth By Nathan Wellman Page 33Illustration By Mark Anthony Crittenden

Nemo And Kafka In Limbo By Gary Inbinder Page 36

Bender By Michael Laquerre Page 39Illustrated By Matthew Freyer

That Which Rises By Chris Ewing Page 45Illustrated By Christopher Lee Stine

Moving Parts By Louise Morgan Page 49

Cover By Ash Sivils - http://amptone.deviantart.com/, www.myspace.com/ashtasticaProof-read By Tina Williams - http://www.myspace.com/writersservices

All material contained within the pages of this magazine and associated websites is copyright of Morpheus Tales. All.Rights Reserved. No material contained herein can be copied or otherwise used without the express permission of the

copyright holders.

2

Marcus Miller drove into the parking lot of the 24-hour Handi-Spot market and parked hisHonda Civic in one of the slots. It was 1:34 a.m. and he wore sweatpants, a sweatshirt, andsneakers. The store’s lone clerk was sweeping the front walk in his orange and yellow smock.Marcus got out of the car and headed for the store’s entrance, combination checkbook/wallet inhand.

“You shouldn’t park there if you’re not going to use it,” the clerk said.Marcus stopped, turned to him, and said, “What? Use what?”“Your car. You parked it in front of the air and water hoses. What if someone needs to use

them?”Marcus looked around. His was the only car in the lot. “I’m just going to be a minute, all I

want is some beer and cig– “”But what if your car doesn’t start when you come back out, and then someone comes in and

needs air or water?” The clerk was in his early twenties, small and wiry with thick glasses and aferret face, rusty hair in a buzz-cut.

Marcus looked back at his car. He had parked in front of the air and water hoses withoutnoticing. He turned to the clerk again.

“Like I said, I’m only going to be a minute.”“I think you should move it,” the clerk said. “Just in case.”“You’re kidding, right?”“No, I’m serious. Someone may come in with a low tire, or something.”Marcus sighed as he turned and went back to the car.It was Friday night and he did not have to work the next day, so he was staying up late to

watch a Bogart festival on Turner Classic Movies. His apartment, where he lived alone with his twocats Priscilla and Muriel, was just down the street from the market. He was missing his favouriteBogart movie, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. He’d left the television on, playing for thesleeping cats.

The clerk continued to sweep the walk as Marcus got in the car and started it up. He backedout of the slot, pulled into the next one, then killed the engine and got out.

“Happy now?” Marcus said as he headed for the store’s entrance.“Well, you don’t have to be snippy about it,” the clerk said. “I’m just doing my job.”Marcus went into the store and set off the beeper that sounded every time someone entered

or left. He was bathed in the store’s humming fluorescent light. An old Eagles song played quietlyfrom speakers hidden somewhere overhead. He went to the beverage coolers in the back of the storeand opened one of the doors, removed a six-pack of Heineken.

The beeper went off again when the clerk came in and went to the register.Marcus took his beer to the register, put it on the counter. He saw the clerk’s nametag – it

read “P.J.” Marcus said, “Give me two packs of Winston Lights. The 100’s.”As he turned to the rack of cigarettes behind him, P.J. said, “You really shouldn’t smoke,

you know.”I don’t believe this, Marcus thought.“I know,” Marcus said as he opened his checkbook, started writing.P.J. turned around with the two packs in hand, but he did not set them down. He nodded at

Marcus’s paunch. “You’re overweight, so the smoking is extra hard on your heart.”Marcus stopped writing and looked at P.J. His face was sprinkled with freckles and his pale

blue eyes were slightly magnified behind the thick, metal-framed glasses. He had a twitch justbeneath his right eye.

3

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. Miles to go, Jacob thinks, probing further. Syrup-thickdroves of underbrush intertwine in a circle of protest. The mesh of thorns and branches lash his barearms and claw at his face. He presses through and arrives at a clearing.

A colossal tent stands in the heart of the black forest. Razor-thin crimson lines dry to a scabon his forearms and cheeks.

The tent looms, skyscraper tall, domed, circus-like. Trees shy away from its pinnacle,leaving a void in the canopy of the woods. A swatch of tent flaps in the breeze - the entry slit. Jacobknows the dweller is gone, but his handiwork pulsates inside. Jacob feels the slimy residue of thepain left behind. He wants to see. Needs to see.

The dweller’s prey wander the dirt floor of the tent.A businessman’s face is stretched across a basketball hoop, his facial flesh bolted to the

clasps. He wears a blue suit with a red tie. A black leather briefcase with shining gold clasps rests athis feet. His flesh is pulled drum-tight by the hoop, making him look Chinese - his eyes are sleekand narrow with a clear fluid oozing from the corners. The corners of his mouth bear leaking sores,where the ripping has begun. His palms are pressed into the orange rim of the basketball hoop. Theonly way to relieve the pressure is to tear his face away, a choice he seems to consider. The man’seyes dart towards Jacob, emerald green and fully aware.

Jacob turns away, but there are others with stretched faces - some stretched across coathangers, another on a steering wheel. One bald man is on his back, his face taut and wide, clingingto the borders of a bicycle rim. The spokes dig into his tight flesh.

Jacob sees a woman without a face. Her eyes are two off-white tumours jammed in thecentre of the corded mass of meat that remains. Strands of black hair fall in front of her former faceand stick, the rest shines on her shoulders. She smiles. Her tongue less mouth is a black hole. Shemade her choice.

A headless body kneels before a tree stump in the centre of the tent. A sledgehammer leansagainst the stump’s side. Jacob wishes it was an axe for the sake of neatness. The neck stump leakson the tree stump’s surface; a gloppy mess drips from the edges onto the thick roots. The maggotsand the bone splinters look alike in the circle of remains around the neck’s base, except the maggotswrithe and twitch.

More people hang from the ceiling of the tent on chains connected to their faces. Jacob seesa menagerie of jean shorts, black slacks, and white dresses; he sees kicking legs and pumping arms.One pair of legs is tiny and pink. Jacob sees the diaper and has to look away. A crimson rain falls inthe tent from these hangars as they drip.

A no smoking sign buzzes on the wall of the tent, flashing on and off in red, block letters.On and off. On and off. Jacob regarding it with a cocked head and furrowed brow when he feels thetentdweller approaching – or is it ringmaster? The silent alarm in Jacob’s bones warns him ofdanger. He bolts from the slaughterhouse-tent and back into the forest, ducking behind a mossy,fallen oak tree. The bark is soft and moist under his fingers as he peers towards the clearing. Dwarf-creatures rattle through the brush. Green flesh sticks to their faces in loose patches, like charredpieces of paper.

The helpers of the tentdweller freeze in the clearing. Dozens of black eyes lock onto themossy log, where Jacob hides. The helpers chatter and titter in high, squeaking howls. They runtowards the log - towards Jacob. Flesh-coloured robes, (or maybe actual flesh, Jacob thinks), flowbehind them.

4

It was the Year of Our Lord, 2018, when the volcanoes began to blow. They tore the Earth’scrust apart, turning the land into a dark, sterile underworld of warfare, plague and famine. Theirfires spawned thick, sulphuric clouds of black, volcanic ash that covered the planet and refused toyield. The world that emerged was a burnt realm, chaotic and in pain.

The apocalypse began with a chain of eruptions in Indonesia, as Mounts Tambora, Merapi,Krakatau, and Bur Ni Telong exploded in rapid succession up the island nation’s western coast.Mount Rainier erupted two days later, burying Tacoma, Washington, beneath forty feet of ash, mud,and debris. Less than a day later, Iceland as we knew it was blown off the map by a super,simultaneous blast from a trio of volcanoes: Mounts Hekla, Katla, and Vestmannaeyjar.

After that, reports became sketchy as reliable news grew scarce. Rumours of more eruptionsin Africa’s Great Rift Valley followed, but after Iceland there was just too much ash pouring intothe atmosphere for communications. Satellites began shutting down one after another. Unable to gettheir signals out, the television stations quickly started to fold. One by one, their pictures turned tostatic. Worldwide riots broke out within hours. That was the moment in history where the wholehouse of cards came tumbling down. In just a few days, everything our civilization hadaccomplished was wiped out. By the end of the month, eighty-percent of the Earth’s population hadperished.

# # #Ethan lived with his parents in a suburb of Nashville. The day he, his parents, brother, sister,

sister’s husband and four-year old nephew stood in their front yard and watched the city burn waswhen they decided it was time to go.

The seven refugees set south, where they figured the upper-level winds would be stronger.Their hope was that those winds would sweep away the toxic black clouds earlier than the morenortherly zones. But they found travelling nearly impossible. Sufficient light to move by lasted onlya few hours each day. The eruptions of August brought winter in September. Twenty feet of blacksnow fell in northern Alabama that first year. They spent the next eight months holed up in afarmhouse just outside of Hartselle.

Ethan’s mother and sister starved there. His nephew later died of exposure. If it weren’t forthe nourishment of their bodies, they would have all certainly perished. It was disgusting, yes;horrible, of course; repulsive, without a doubt, but it kept them alive. By May, when the pollutedsnows finally gave way to polluted rain, not a single individual in the remnant of Earth’s dwindlingpopulation could deny the grisly title of Cannibal. Ethan’s father and brother died later, at differenttimes along the way, both from of a combination of black-lung disease and malnutrition. Hisbrother-in-law, Ethan’s final companion, was claimed by pneumonia in Hattiesburg the next winter.

From there, Ethan continued alone. The thoughts of his family still weighed heavily on himas he came upon the green sign. It was fading and covered in an ashy film, but it could still be read:Gulfport Mississippi. After years of travelling, he had finally made it to the coast.

There was no doubt that the black clouds had thinned compared to those first two darkyears. Most days back then only enough sunlight filtered through to travel for a few hours.Conversely, at twenty hours long, the nights were bitter and seemed to never end. Ethan had toconstantly remind himself that there was still a sun beyond the endless sea of black, boiling cloudsoverhead.

5

“Go on, Spike,” said Major. “I’m not helping you this time. You have to learn to do ityourself.”

“But, Dad, I don’t think I can.” Spike rubbed his face.Major sighed and gave his son a stern look, but wasn’t too harsh on the kid. On the day his

own father handed over the reins, he hadn’t wanted to go into that pen and catch that animal. It wasscary, and he’d feared being bitten. But had done it, and got bitten, and his father had been proud.Spike could get hurt. But that was all part of the learning process. You had to chuck them in at somepoint, didn’t you?

Spike sighed and looked into the pen. The creature was looking out as if knowing what wasgoing on. The thing was about to die, to be cooked and eaten. But that was the order of things . . .and Spike was the one to bring about that order. The creature would be damned tasty when cooked,but was big, and there was no telling what an animal could do when cornered and frightened.

“Come on, Spike, your mother’s waiting. She’s cooking the vegetables and wants the meat.She’ll be out in a minute to ask us where it is. And I don’t want to have to tell her that her big sonhasn’t got the guts to go in the pen and slit that bastard’s throat.”

Spike sighed and gave his dad a black look.“I’m sorry, son. That was uncalled for. But will you do it, please? You know, your sister

offered to do it once.”“What?” There was a strange quality to Spike’s voice, a deep meaning behind it.Dad smiled knowingly.Spike looked thoughtful, rubbing his chin. “She really offered?”“Yep.”“And wasn’t scared?”“Nope.”“Huh.” Spike looked into the distance. It was dark and the trees floated about in the gentle

breeze. It was peaceful and the moon shone down brightly in a clear sky. The air was wonderfullyclean, and Major took in a lungful, watching his son struggle with his inner emotions.

6

Lucy is having a very bad underwear day. Her bra has pinged off twice already. Once is notunusual, but twice is worrying. She checks the book, just to be sure, and reads if a girl’s bra or pantsslip down without warning it means someone who loves her is thinking about her.

Not so bad then.But does pinging count as slipping?She’s deliberating this vital fact when her stockings come free from her suspender clasps.

She catches her breath. Bras pinging off is one thing, suspender clasps giving way equals a wholenew board game.

The book says: if a girl’s suspender clasps go three times, she can expect bad luck.Okay, she reasons with herself, it just happened once. Just once. No need to jump the gun.

Not yet.She clips them back in place, and click, they go again.Goosebumps attack in fast waves, as does the need to pee. The book is left on her dressing

table, and she makes for the en suite, having reattached her stockings. Inside the bathroom, shehitches up her skirt, yanks down her panties, and plonks herself onto the chilly loo seat. Hot spraysplashes into the pan so fast it spits back up and wets her. She looks down and sees two holes in herknickers. Not one, two – the first between the fabric and elastic, the other right in the crotch wherethe material is thickened. She sticks her finger through each hole, her mind in a tangle, the hot spraynow just a piddle and one or two droplets.

Holes in panties mean something. What? She can’t quite remember, so she hurries to wipeherself, retrieves her panties, and rushes back to the book. On page thirteen it says if two or moreholes appear in either knickers or bra, a girl will receive a gift very soon.

Chewing her lip, she adjusts her suspenders, and click, they go again.# # #

Mick is busy stitching pink ribbons into place. His finger bleeds. He’s stabbed himself twicewith his needle, and once his thumb got hurt when the point slipped beneath his nail. Painful work,but worth it.

He’s already twisted the material, added frills, lace, and sewn on a fancy hem, and hereckons a delicate little bow will be the perfect finishing touch.

# # #Cleo’s vision fades in an out. Her belly feels warm, her throat hurts, one of her feet has gone

numb. It’s hard to think straight, or focus on anything at all. She remembers the stranger at the bar,his warm smile, game of darts, and that funny book he held snuggled under his arm.

“Human skin,” he said when questioned.Of course she didn’t believe him.She does now, though.

7

Todd Dimwalt hadn’t expected to die tonight.He was twenty-five years old and had only graduated college the month before with a

Bachelor’s Degree in Business Management. Now here he was lying in a pool of his own blood,trying his best to keep his intestines from spilling out.

It all happened so fast. One minute, he’d been holding his flashlight up to her face, and thenext minute, he was covered in his own gore, screaming in the darkness.

He could hear her moving above his head in the damp basement, flapping leathery wingsand scratching sharp, serrated claws against the cement walls.

His best friend from college, Ronnie Snapp, was probably dead somewhere in this veryroom. “I’m sorry, man,” Todd whimpered. “I didn’t believe you.”

Earlier in the evening, they were both out at the neighbourhood pub getting drunk. It was aFriday night tradition started four years earlier when they finally became of legal age. Ronnie washammered. He was bent over the sidewalk throwing up.

“You okay, R?” Todd asked.“Dude,” was all Ronnie said. He wiped at his mouth with a long white sleeve, and began a

series of fitful coughs.“We should get you back home,” Todd said. “You’re not looking too good.”Ronnie nodded his head yes. Todd started up his Ford Explorer and lit a cigarette. Ronnie

had his head back and eyes closed most of the trip. They pulled up to the driveway about fifteenminutes later.

“We’re here, man,” Todd informed.“Hey, why don’t we crack open a couple of more cold ones before the night’s up?” Ronnie

said, looking much more like his self.“Okay, what the hell.”Ronnie shared a small two-story, three-bedroom brick home with his grandmother. She had

recently been hospitalized for pneumonia, so the house was unusually quiet. Ronnie seemed tohesitate prior to inserting the front door key.

“C’mon, man. I got to take a leak,” Todd announced.Ronnie straightened up, ran his fingers through his hair, and opened the lock. Todd

shouldered his way through and dashed for the bathroom.“This place smells like old people,” Todd called out. He flushed the toilet, and without

washing, wiped his hands on his jeans. “I’m ready to refuel, bro!” He heard Ronnie break a coupleof caps off, and set the bottles down on the kitchen table.

“Whoa! Seriously, dude,” Todd said, pausing to take a swig of his beer. “This place has areally strange odour.”

“That’s because I got the devil locked up in the cellar,” Ronnie confessed.Todd laughed. “Yeah, right,” he trailed off, noticing the two-by-fours nailed across the

cellar door. “Uh, Ronnie, what the hell is that supposed to be?”“Told you,” Ronnie said. “I got the devil down there. Please believe me.”There was something in Ronnie’s voice that Todd had never heard before. It was something

like fear, or madness. “You’re kind of creeping me out, bro,” he said with a slight smile.Ronnie slammed his fist down on the table. “It’s the damned truth!” He barked, knocking

the beer bottle to the floor. The contents pooled around Ronnie’s feet for a moment, then slowlybegan to run downhill, seeping under the crack of the cellar door.

8

Whispers flooded through the corridors, wound their way around the gilded pillars, slitheredbeneath doors. Rumour flowed over the plush velvet carpets, flooded through the kitchens andamused the scullery maids and the servants. A susurrus of gossip slid and slithered down the longdark tunnels of the under-quarters. And, like Daedelus’ ant in the shell with a twine wrapped aroundone leg, it slowly, in ever decreasing circles, found its way to the heart of the matter.

“He has taken after his father,” They said, and nudged and gave each other significantglances. “It’ll turn out bad, mark my words.”

His father had been a shape-shifter. He had worn the skin of one creature, and shed it like asnake, handsome as he was now.

One day, long ago, the Old King had been lost, wandering in a forest, wild and tangled, along way from his kingdom. He had been found by Hans-My-Hedgehog - a man-beast who rodeupon a rooster. He had hedgehog quills as soft as feathers and he lived in a castle built within agreen clearing. They bargained: if Hans-My-Hedgehog agreed to save the Old King, then the OldKing would deliver the life of the first creature to greet him on his return. It was a safe bet and aneasy sacrifice. The guards outside the palace walls were polite and would respectfully say hello.The life of a commoner did not weigh heavily against the life of a King.

And so, the human was hosted by the beast, who played him the pipes. Then, fed and rested,he was restored to the borders of his own kingdom.

Something went wrong. The princess, weary with worry, was waiting on the bridge of themoat, and she flew up to welcome him home. She cried when she pulled away from the embraceand saw the expression on his face. He tasted the flavour of fate and found it bitter.

His only daughter, had through trickery and destiny, been pledged to the... thing. So it goes.In the course of time, his enchantment was lifted - a beast no longer, but not without pain or longjourneying.

Happy endings seldom last forever. And the boy had taken after his father.“He is a beast,” They said.“Who would reign instead?” They replied. “He has no brothers or sisters; the birthing tore

his mother apart.”“But who wants a monarch who can spear quail’s eggs upon his brow?”When he played at tumbling with the jester, he found himself caught in the rug. It took him

till his teenage years before he could resist the urge to melt into a spiny ball whenever thunderstruck. He ate with his snout in the bowl, and all attempts at teaching him courtly manners wererepulsed by a growl, and a gnashing of rodent teeth. He refused to hunt, you see. Or hawk, or shoot,or course. A grufflehog may rattle with a thousand tiny spears, but he will not bear them againstfellow creatures.

9

The V.I.P. Lounge lives and dies off of jack-offs like me. We pick three numbers and waitfive minutes, a ten-dollar ticket wrinkled with beer lying on the bar next to our yellow stainedfingers.

Numbers pop up on the screen, displayed in comic bubbles blown by cartoon charactersmeant to distract us from reality. A smoke ring from Popeye’s pipe floats . . .18. ChineseOlympians bat a ping-pong ball back and forth . . .57. Anne of Green Gables blows her bubble gum. . .POP! 26.

Keno is a filthy game, glorified Bingo for grown men that should know better. Eightynumbers of wasted life.

No one ever wins, and when they do, it’s never enough to break even. Never enough tomake it worth it.

But, we still bet.Maybe it gives us a reason to order another drink. Maybe it just gives us a reason not to go

home. Whatever the reason, each of us has our own, and it goes unspoken.I’d wager that if you took all my losing tickets over the years and stacked them up like

flapjacks, they’d rise up high enough to allow a grown man to jump to his death; swan-dive into amartini glass, olives shooting out his ass. A drunkard’s dream. Way better than how these goofyschmucks went out. They could only have been so lucky.

Mike, who always called me Ryan for some reason, even though that’s not my name, hasgot his face planted in a bowl of popcorn. Blood has darkened the hairs that stick out of his left earmaking them look like magnified ant legs. The popcorn around his cheeks is all soggy and gross. Itreminds me of when I was a little kid and my babysitter used to pour too much hot butter on it andruin it, but this is red.

My best friend, Tyler Laymon, is lying prostrate with a gunshot to the prostate. I’m not surehow a bullet through the sphincter can kill a person, but believe me, it sure as shit can. He’s on thefloor, arms gripping the legs of a barstool with his butt stuck up in the air; a horny, menstruatingskunk waiting to be mounted by Pepe LePew.

A kid I’ve never seen before, with a first attempt at a sketchy goatee sprouting from hischin, has a Yankees baseball cap on sideways and a North Carolina basketball jersey on backward,as if he’s some kind of an Eminem wannabe. His two front teeth are missing. They weren’t when heordered his first gin and juice. I catch myself giggling when I wonder what he’ll want forChristmas. I’m guessing he’s not going to get what he wants, unless Santa is really skilled attweezing shattered bits of enamel out of medulla oblongata.

And then there’s Sarah. She never bitched when I spent my last dollar on whiskey and didn’thave anything left over to tip her with. Every Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and every otherSunday, she could be counted on to faithfully pour my Jim Beam and punch in my lucky numbers:12, 29, and 69. Sarah was married with three kids. It took all my will power not to hit on her, but Inever did. I’d learned early on not to screw with the sacred bond of marriage. It only breaks yourheart, and your ribs.

Sweet Sarah. Not half-bad to look at.She’s the only one I’m truly sorry is dead.

10

The sweet, flowery perfume that had for so long intoxicated Dan’s life crept up his noseagain. His heart stopped as the scent paralyzed his brain. He didn’t move as the television blared onabout the escaped mental patients from Driftwood Mental Care. His mind didn’t even register as thenewswoman indifferently presented all of the grisly details of casualties and survivors. He didn’teven think to dial the number on the screen to tell them that he probably had a clue as to where theirmissing patient was.

All he could smell was the perfume.He remembered breakfast in bed, laughing silently to himself as he chewed patiently on her

burnt eggs. He remembered the touch of her skin as they held hands at Janie’s clarinet recital. Heremembered person after person offering condolences to them as he held her close at Janie’sfuneral. He remembered her sobbing into his shoulder and he remembered his own wet face pressedinto her neck, unable to find the words to make it ok.

The years of subsequent alcoholism, abuse, screaming, and downright unbridled ferocitywas actually not the first thing he thought of. Neither was the memory of the neighbour’s dogSkippy with his throat torn out on his lawn with his wife’s mouth dripping with red.

Although these memories did eventually make an appearance.“Danielle?” he whispered.No response. Slowly, deliberately, he grabbed the remote and aimed it at the TV.Beeeooowwwp.Now no sound at all. Only the perfume.He began to walk around his house, sniffing into the air.“Come out, please,” he breathed again.Bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, living room, bedroom again. Only the smell.“Okay,” Dan said, “she’s not here… I’m going crazy. I’m going to go downstairs and have

my tea. I’m just lonely that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”But she was there. Even the tea now seemed tainted by the scent. Every time he breathed he

saw her, his blushing bride smiling up at him; excited about the whole life that was ahead of them.He grabbed his tea and crawled under the table, hugging his knees to his chest.

“Never leave me,” she had once said one night under the blankets.

11

‘Tis a strange place, this Limbo!Not a place, yet name it so.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Limbo

Mr. Nemo and his friend, Kafka the Cat, squatted on a low bluff overlooking a muddyriverbank. Scrubby brown grass-stalks waved in the sultry wind. Dead trees appeared like chunks ofdriftwood planted upright in the sulphurous sands of a chthonian shore; the burning breeze rattledbare branches jutting from grey stalagmitic trunks. A leaden sky seemed to promise rain; but not adrop of moisture came to this dry, dusty place. The only thing that rained here was black ash filledwith the acrid odour of sizzling fat and burning bones.

Blood-gorged bluebottles swarmed, their incessant buzzing interfused with a more distantecho of groans. Nemo sighed, inhaling a vapour that an ancient Roman might have described as thestench emitting from the mouth of Rome’s Cloaca Maxima where it emptied into the Tiber — theodour of raw human and animal waste, dead bodies and offal mixed with the sharp stink of pitchand sulphur.

“Will it ever rain?” Nemo cried hoarsely, in the false hope that a shower might quench histhirst, cool his body and drive away the flies, even if only for a moment.

“By my calculation, we have been here four-hundred and ninety-nine years, thirty-days,three-hours and twenty-nine minutes, and not one drop of moisture has fallen from the sky.” Kafkameowed, while batting at a fly with his right forepaw. “When it comes to arid climes, I have lived inPhoenix, Arizona, and on the whole I’d have to say that this is worse.”

Mr. Nemo had never been to Phoenix, so rather than question his friend’s comparison of thetwo places, he remarked upon Kafka’s timekeeping. “You’re very precise in your timemeasurement, but why don’t you calculate the seconds?”

“That would be overdoing it, even for the most horological of felines. Suffice it to say thatwe’ve been here one hell of a long time.”

Nemo nodded his head in agreement. No doubt, they were in a pickle, but crossing the riverhad seemed worse. Therefore, they had tried venturing in different directions, but always returnedto the same place. After centuries of fruitless searching for a way out, they had settled upon thisspot.

12

“It was the oddest thing”, I said over lunch at the university. “Her father, Robert, called herdown from her room and asked her to perform a trick for us.”

“And did she?” asked my colleague, Gilbert, who had been wolfing down a turkeysandwich.

I nodded. “She did. Quite an odd little girl.”“How so?”I leaned forward in my chair. “She bent a spoon.”Gilbert stopped chewing. “Bent a spoon?”“Yeah. Right in half.”He chuckled. “Anyone can bend a spoon, Steve, unless she were an infant.”“She did it without touching it.”

# # #Gilbert had been fascinated with my tale of young Lucy Heires and how she came to bend a

spoon at her parents’ dinner party the other night. He was so intrigued that I invited him as my guestto their get together for Friday evening.

“I hope you don’t mind,” I said to Robert, “but I took the liberty of inviting a colleague ofmine, Professor Gilbert Foxx.”

“That will be fine. I’ll let Julia know.”I pulled the sedan into the circular drive and opened the door for my wife, Sharyn. She

smiled and I noticed how attractive she looked with her hair up and that blue, sequined dress thatshe purchased from Wharton’s on Fifth, the one that the dean kept ogling her in like a lovesickschool boy.

Two headlights cut a swath through the darkness and Gilbert’s Jaguar pulled in slowly. Iwaited for him to climb out of the vehicle.

“I see you found it all right,” I commented.Gilbert was dressed in a beige jacket and white buttoned down shirt, but no tie. “GPS, my

friend.” He nodded to Sharyn and gave her a soft peck on the cheek.“So nice to see you again, Gilbert,” she commented.“After you,” I said, motioning them toward the entrance.Robert answered the door. He was a tall man with dark hair who was never at a loss for a

smile. He stepped aside, allowing us access.The house was a lovely two-story Victorian that boasted a wide spiral staircase and twenty

foot volume ceilings.Dinner went off without a hitch. The catering crew began to disperse the eclectic desserts

and coffees as Gilbert nudged me, eager to witness their daughter commence with the trickery.“Say, Robert,” I said, sipping an espresso. “Where’s Lucy?”“In her room,” he replied.“Is she up? I was wondering if she would show Gilbert here her trick from the other night.”Julia glanced at Robert. “Well, I’m not-”“Sure!” he cried. “Why not.”I noticed Julia peering down at her lap, playing with her fingers.“That’s great,” I said, tossing a wink at Gilbert.Robert rose from his chair and ascended the staircase, calling out his daughter’s name.

Moments later he was leading young Lucy Heires by the hand into the dining room.She was a cute girl of seven with long dark hair like her mother’s. Her eyes were green with

tiny spots of blue. She wore a yellow dress with matching footwear.

13

Joseph calls at precisely eight thirty, on a hazy Tuesday morning. Joseph may be a piece-of-shit, but he’s a punctual one. I answer with the speakerphone, as I finish my first cup of coffee.

“Hey.”“Goddamn it, Andrew, I hate when you use that thing.”“What’s the news?”“Meet us at the little sandwich place on 7th and Park. Ten O’clock. Martin will be there.”“Martin? You still use him?”“He knows people, and he doesn’t ask questions.”“He’s a bastard.”“He’s a bastard who knows people and doesn’t ask questions. Ten O’clock.”The click thuds. I finish my coffee, and consider smoking a cigarette for a good ten minutes

as I pack.The sandwich shop is a local spot for all manner of riff-raff and refuse, be they the blue-

collar sort or people like us. Martin is unshaven as usual, and sitting on the patio. Joseph rolls inshortly thereafter. We make small talk as we wait on our orders. Joseph brings up the Red Sox andtheir inability to appease their fans with another pennant. Eventually, we get to the topic ofbusiness.

“We only need another three.” Joseph says, as he dips his sandwich.Martin leans back to smoke his cigarette. “Standard gear?”“No, it’s a dig.”“You have to be shitting me”, I add.“Oh, no. You’re offending his sensibilities.” Martin chuckles. He actually chuckles.Joseph continues, as if uninterrupted, “It’s outside of this little town called Hamark. Big

pillars. Very old. There’s bound to be some good stuff. Andy, you got your people lined up?”“Yeah, they’ll be waiting on a call when we get back.”“Oh, and there’s another thing.”“What’s that?” Martin asks, flicking his ashes on the ground.“We’re going to camp out, so Andy, you’ll need to pick up whatever we’ll need.”Joseph has a solid plan. The area is pretty rural, so we want to avoid the locals as much as

possible, and there’s plenty of area to set up camp. I never thought I would sink so low as to begrave robbing, but at this point I can’t say much against it. I return to the hotel, grab my things, andmake a quick phone call. Cara isn’t home, so I leave a message.

14

Yesterday, I lost the kitchen. It happens from time to time – it’s that kind of house. In thepast year alone, I’ve lost the bedroom three times, the back door twice and the hall cupboard sooften I’ve lost count. Most difficult was when the upstairs landing disappeared for a month: it madegetting up and down the stairs highly inconvenient. Oh, and there was the time I lost the cat, too. Heturned up in the end, none the worse for wear. It takes a bit of getting used to, granted, but onceyou’ve got it into your head that every now and again a room simply won’t be there when you getup in the morning, it’s not too bad. You rather develop the habit of carrying the things you really,really need with you in a bag.

If I’m honest, I should have been a little more wary the first time I came to see the house,long before I bought it. It must have been February; late February or March, I suppose, as there wassnow two inches deep on the ground and a strange sort of mist in the air, sitting there midwaybetween the earth and the sky. Funny really: you don’t often get snow and mist together, but it wasan odd winter all round, that one. The agent had agreed to meet me there at 3 o’clock, but forreasons I can’t remember we finally walked up the drive nearer to 4. The light was fading by thatpoint, and I vaguely recall the shapes of the trees, the sweep of the path, the spread of the porchwhen I saw them for the first time…. Which reminds me, the porch has a nasty habit of wandering,too. You have to keep an eye on it if you’re going in and out of the house or it just sort of slides off.

The agent spent a long time extolling the virtues of the aspect, the natural light, the squarefootage. He needn’t have bothered – as soon as I saw it, I knew I had to have it. Even when he toldme (after I’d signed the papers, mind you) that the house had a bit of a past. Nothing frightening,you understand, nothing to be concerned about, he said; it’s just that every now and again, itsowners at that time have suddenly decided to sell and have upped and gone the same day. I think hewas worried I would pull out of the deal and he’d lose his nice little commission. Not that it madeany difference to me. What business is it of mine if people who’ve lived here before me have had aquick change of life-plan? What matters is that I walking up the path to that house felt like finallycoming home.

The thing with the rooms was a little unsettling to begin with, I’ll admit. It was the atticbedroom to begin with: I was taking one of the empty boxes up there just after the move. I reachedthe door at the top of the stairs, turned the handle and pulled it open. Nothing. Not even a wall,simply… an absence. Not light, not dark, just a misty sort of grey. I closed the door, quickly, took adeep breath and opened it again. Beyond it lay a perfectly normal – if small – bedroom with gablewindows and plaid curtains I had already decided to change. I put it down to tiredness after themove; it had, after all, been quite a difficult process. There had been some unpleasantness at my lasthome, problems with the landlord and so on. The sort of thing I had to spend a lot of time and agreat deal of energy smoothing over. I was tired enough to put this rather odd experience down tosheer exhaustion – and made a mental note to replace those curtains sooner rather than later.

It was when the downstairs cupboard went missing a month later that I started to suspectthere was something unusual about this place. I was planning on taking a walk down to the old barnat the bottom of the garden, and went to fetch my boots from the cupboard. Which wasn’t there. Noteven the door. I walked up and down the hallway for a good ten minutes, wondering if I was goingmad. Most likely I would have walked for longer, had the door not suddenly reappeared as I passed.It opened normally, and there was the cupboard. Since then, a lot of the rooms have gone off towherever it is they go; they always come back eventually, even if they aren’t necessarily quite thesame as they were before. When a room comes back, it feels sort of different. Nothing’s changed,exactly, but it feels rather as though someone else has been living there – someone who ownsexactly the same things as you do, but who isn’t you – and has just stepped out for a moment. As Isay, it takes a bit of getting used to, but at least the plumbing works.

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