Writing at Hasting’s Hardback Café in Farmington, NM, late evening of October 16, 2015 (self-portrait)
Just a quick note to mention that my short horror story “Wolfsheim” has been re-printed at Dark Fire Fiction. Many thanks to Karonda Barker and Dr. Jones for re-publishing this piece.
“Wolfsheim” appeared previously in Midnight Times in 2005. Jay Manning, editor of Midnight Times commented in its Spring, 2006 issue: “”Wolfsheim” is basically a traditional horror story that tells the tale of a small European village confronted by the threat of werewolves. If you like stories about lycans, you definitely need to check this one out. Great stuff.”
On another note, I love the colors they chose for their website. It makes reading the story a more pleasant experience.
Also, while there, check out their Links and Resources at the bottom left on their home page, which provides information on horror markets. While you’re at it, go to their “Share with Others” section on the right and rate their site at Spookysites. They have a beautiful little website, check it out often.
This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html
An old man named Daniel Baker, living near Lebanon, Iowa, was suspected by his neighbors of having murdered a peddler who had obtained permission to pass the night at his house. This was in 1853, when peddling was more common in the Western country than it is now, and was attended with considerable danger. The peddler with his pack traversed the country by all manner of lonely roads, and was compelled to rely upon the country people for hospitality. This brought him into relation with queer characters, some of whom
Ambrose Bierce October 7, 1892
were not altogether scrupulous in their methods of making a living, murder being an acceptable means to that end. It occasionally occurred that a peddler with diminished pack and swollen purse would be traced to the lonely dwelling of some rough character and never could be traced beyond. This was so in the case of “old man Baker,” as he was always called. (Such names are given in the western “settlements” only to elderly persons who are not esteemed; to the general disrepute of social unworth is affixed the special reproach of age.) A peddler came to his house and none went away – that is all that anybody knew.
Seven years later the Rev. Mr. Cummings, a Baptist minister well known in that part of the country, was driving by Baker’s farm one night. It was not very dark: there was a bit of moon somewhere above the light veil of mist that lay along the earth. Mr. Cummings, who was at all times a cheerful person, was whistling a tune, which he would occasionally interrupt to speak a word of friendly encouragement to his horse. As he came to a little bridge across a dry ravine he saw the figure of a man standing upon it, clearly outlined against the gray background of a misty forest. The man had something strapped on his back and carried a heavy stick – obviously an itinerant peddler. His attitude had in it a suggestion of abstraction, like that of a sleepwalker. Mr. Cummings reined in his horse when he arrived in front of him, gave him a pleasant salutation and invited him to a seat in the vehicle – “if you are going my way,” he added. The man raised his head, looked him full in the face, but neither answered nor made any further movement. The minister, with good-natured persistence, repeated his invitation. At this the man threw his right hand forward from his side and pointed downward as he stood on the extreme edge of the bridge. Mr. Cummings looked past him, over into the ravine, saw nothing unusual and withdrew his eyes to address the man again. He had disappeared. The horse, which all this time had been uncommonly restless, gave at the same moment a snort of terror and started to run away. Before he had regained control of the animal the minister was at the crest of the hill a hundred yards along. He looked back and saw the figure again, at the same place and in the same attitude as when he had first observed it. Then for the first time he was conscious of a sense of the supernatural and drove home as rapidly as his willing horse would go.
On arriving at home he related his adventure to his family, and early the next morning, accompanied by two neighbors, John White Corwell and Abner Raiser, returned to the spot. They found the body of old man Baker hanging by the neck from one of the beams of the bridge, immediately beneath the spot where the apparition had stood. A thick coating of dust, slightly dampened by the mist, covered the floor of the bridge, but the only footprints were those of Mr. Cummings’ horse.
In taking down the body the men disturbed the loose, friable earth of the slope below it, disclosing human bones already nearly uncovered by the action of water and frost. They were identified as those of the lost peddler. At the double inquest the coroner’s jury found that Daniel Baker died by his own hand while suffering from temporary insanity, and that Samuel Morritz was murdered by some person or persons to the jury unknown
Follow the link to Paula Cappa’s review of the Conan-Doyle short story “Horror of the Heights”. Here is a brief plot synopsis from the article:
“Horror of the Heights is a short story told via Mr. Joyce-Armstrong’s blood-soaked notebook found in a field, one mile to the west of the village of Withyham, upon the Kent and Sussex border in England. On a warm September day, Joyce-Armstrong takes flight “under the hush and heaviness of impending rain.” His mission takes a shocking turn … or should I say leap?”
Follow the link to an article by Laurie Hertzel at Brevity on the delicate predicament of whether have the right to tell someone else’s story. As she summarizes the problem:
“But when I began working on my first memoir, I realized that it’s not that simple. Yes, I own my story—that is, I have the right to tell the stories of my life. But I don’t live in a vacuum, and in order to tell my stories I cannot help but tell the stories of others. Do I have that right? Do I have the right to recall things that other people did, write them down, attach their names to them, and publish them in a book? Do I have to ask permission? What if they say no?”
For several years, Mrs. H. T. Miller lived alone in a pleasant apartment (two rooms with kitchenette) in a remodeled brownstone near the East River. She was a widow: Mr. H. T. Miller had left a reasonable amount of insurance. Her interests were narrow, she had no friends to speak of, and she rarely journeyed farther than the corner grocery. The other people in the house never seemed to notice her: her clothes were matter-of-fact, her hair iron-gray, clipped and casually waved; she did not use cosmetics, her features were plain and inconspicuous, and on her last birthday she was sixty-one. Her activities were seldom spontaneous: she kept the two rooms immaculate, smoked an occasional cigarette, prepared her own meals and tended a canary.
Then she met Miriam. It was snowing that night. Mrs. Miller had finished drying the supper dishes and was thumbing through an afternoon paper when she saw an advertisement of a picture playing at a neighborhood theatre. The title sounded good, so she struggled into her beaver coat, laced her galoshes and left the apartment, leaving one light burning in the foyer: she found nothing more disturbing than a sensation of darkness.
The snow was fine, falling gently, not yet making an impression on the pavement. The wind from the river cut only at street crossings.
Truman Capote Photo by Carl Van Vechten 1948 Van Vechten Collection, Library of Congress
Mrs. Miller hurried, her head bowed, oblivious as a mole burrowing a blind path. She stopped at a drugstore and bought a package of peppermints.
A long line stretched in front of the box office; she took her place at the end. There would be (a tired voice groaned) a short wait for all seats. Mrs. Miller rummaged in her leather handbag till she collected exactly the correct change for admission. The line seemed to be taking its own time and, looking around for some distractions, she suddenly became conscious of a little girl standing under the edge of the marquee.
Her hair was the longest and strangest Mrs. Miller had ever seen: absolutely silver-white, like an albino’s. It flowed waist-length in smooth, loose lines. She was thin and fragilely constructed. There was a simple, special elegance in the way she stood with her thumbs in the pockets of a tailored plum-velvet coat.
Mrs. Miller felt oddly excited, and when the little girl glanced toward her, she smiled warmly. The little girl walked over and said, “Would you care to do me a favor?”
“I’d be glad to if I can,” said Mrs. Miller.
“Oh, it’s quite easy. I merely want you to buy a ticket for me; they won’t let me in otherwise. Here, I have the money.” And gracefully she handed Mrs. Miller two dimes and a nickel.
They went over to the theatre together. An usherette directed them to a lounge; in twenty minutes the picture would be over.
“I feel just like a genuine criminal,” said Mrs. Miller gaily, as she sat down. “I mean that sort of thing’s against the law, isn’t it? I do hope I haven’t done the wrong thing. You mother knows where you are, dear? I mean she does, doesn’t she?
The little girl said nothing. She unbuttoned her coat and folded it across her lap. Her dress underneath was prim and dark blue. A gold chain dangled about her neck, and her fingers, sensitive and musical looking, toyed with it. Examining her more attentively, Mrs. Miller decided the truly distinctive feature was not her hair, but her eyes; they were hazel, steady, lacking any childlike quality whatsoever and, because of their size, seemed to consume her small face.
Mrs. Miller offered a peppermint. “What’s your name, dear?”
“Miriam,” she said, as though, in some curious way, it were information already familiar.
“Why, isn’t that funny—my name’s Miriam, too. And it’s not a terribly common name either. Now, don’t tell me your last name’s Miller!”
“Just Miriam.”
“But isn’t that funny?”
“Moderately,” said Miriam, and rolled a peppermint on her tongue.
Mrs. Miller flushed and shifted uncomfortably. “You have such a large vocabulary for such a young girl?”
“Do I?”
“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Miller, hastily changing the topic to: “Do you like the movies?”
“I really wouldn’t know,” said Miriam. “I’ve never been before.”
Women began filling the lounge; the rumble of the newsreel bombs exploded in the distance. Mrs. Miller rose, tucking her purse under her arm. “I guess I’d better be running now if I want to get a seat,” she said. “It was nice to have met you.”
Miriam nodded ever so slightly.
It snowed all week. Wheels and footsteps moved soundlessly on the street, as if the business of living continued secretly behind a pale but impenetrable curtain. In the falling quiet there was no sky or earth, only snow lifting in the wind, frosting the window glass, chilling the rooms, deadening and hushing the city. At all hours it was necessary to keep a lamp lighted, and Mrs. Miller lost track of the days: Friday was no different from Saturday and on Sunday she went to the grocery story; closed, of course.
That evening she scrambled eggs and fixed a bowl of tomato soup. Then, after putting on a flannel robe and cold-creaming her face, she propped herself up in bed with a hot-water bottle under her feet. She was reading the Times when the doorbell rang. At first she thought it must be a mistake and whoever it was would go away. But it rang and rang and settled to a persistent buzz. She looked at the clock: a little after eleven; it did not seem possible, she was always asleep by ten.
Climbing out of bed, she trotted barefoot across the living room. “I’m coming, please be patient.” The latch was caught; she turned it this way and that way and the bell never stopped for an instant. “Stop it,” she cried. The bolt gave way and she opened the door an inch. “What in heaven’s name?”
“Hello,” said Miriam.
“Oh…why, hello,” said Mrs. Miller, stepping hesitantly into the hall. “You’re that little girl.”
“I thought you’d never answer, but I kept my finger on the button; I knew you were home. Aren’t you glad to see me?”
Mrs. Miller did not know what to say. Miriam, she saw, wore the same plum velvet coat and now she had also a beret to match; her white hair was braided in two shining plaits and looped at the ends with enormous white ribbons.
“Since I’ve waited so long, you could at least let me in,” she said.
“It’s awfully late….”
Miriam regarded her blankly. “What difference does that make? Let me in. It’s cold out here and I have on a silk dress.” Then, with a gentle gesture, she urged Mrs. Miller aside and passed into the apartment.
She dropped her coat and beret on a chair. She was indeed wearing a silk dress. White silk. White silk in February. The skirt was beautifully pleated and the sleeves long; it made a faint rustle as she strode about the room. “I like your place,” she said. “I like the rug, blue’s my favorite color.” She touched a paper rose in a vase on the coffee table. “Imitation,” she commented wanly. “How sad. Aren’t imitations sad?” She seated herself on the sofa, daintily spreading her skirt.
“What do you want?” Mrs. Miller asked.
“Sit down,” said Miriam. “It makes me nervous to see people stand.”
Mrs. Miller sank to a hassock. “What do you want?” she repeated.
“You know, I don’t think you’re glad I came.”
For a second Mrs. Miller was without an answer; her hand motioned vaguely. Miriam giggled and pressed back on a mound of chintz pillows. Mrs. Miller noticed that the girl was less pale than she remembered; her cheeks were flushed.
“How did you know where I lived?”
Miriam frowned. “That’s no question at all. What’s your name? What’s mine?”
“But I’m not listed in the phone book.”
“Oh, let’s talk about something else.”
Mrs. Miller said, “Your mother must be insane to let a child like you wander around at all hours of the night—and in such ridiculous clothes. She must be out of her mind.”
Miriam got up and moved to a corner where a covered bird cage hung from a ceiling chain. She peeked under the cover. “It’s a canary,” she said. “Would you mind if I woke him? I’d like to hear him sing.”
“Leave Tommy alone,” Mrs. Miller said, anxiously. “Don’t you dare wake him.”
“Certainly,” said Miriam. “But I don’t see why I can’t hear him sing.” And then, “Have you anything to eat? I’m starving! Even milk and a jam sandwich would be fine.”
“Look,” said Mrs. Miller, arising from the hassock, “look—if I make some nice sandwiches will you be a good child and run along home? It’s past midnight, I’m sure.”
“It’s snowing,” reproached Miriam. “And cold and dark.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have come here to begin with,” said Mrs. Miller, struggling to control her voice. “I can’t help the weather. If you want anything to eat you’ll have to promise to leave.”
Miriam brushed a braid against her cheek. Her eyes were thoughtful, as if weighing the proposition. She turned toward the bird cage. “Very well, she said, “I promise.”
How old is she? Ten? Eleven? Mrs. Miller, in the kitchen, unsealed a jar of strawberry preserves and cut four slices of bread. She poured a glass of milk and paused to light a cigarette. And why has she come? Her hand shook as she held the match, fascinated, till it burned her finger. The canary was singing; singing as he did in the morning and at no other time. “Miriam,” she called, “Miriam, I told you not to disturb Tommy.” There was no answer. She called again; all she heard was the canary. She inhaled the cigarette and discovered she had lighted the cork-tip end and—oh, really, she mustn’t lose her temper.
She carried the food in on a tray and set it on the coffee table. She saw first that the bird cage still wore its night cover. And Tommy was singing. It gave her a queer sensation. And no one was in the room. Mrs. Miller went through an alcove leading to her bedroom; at the door she caught her breath.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Miriam glanced up and in her eyes was a look that was not ordinary. She was standing by the bureau, a jewel case opened before her. For a minute she studied Mrs. Miller, forcing their eyes to meet, and she smiled. “There’s nothing good here,” she said. “But I like this.” Her hand held a cameo brooch. “It’s charming.”
“Suppose—perhaps you’d better put it back,” said Mrs. Miller, feeling suddenly the need of some support. She leaned against the door frame; her head was unbearably heavy; a pressure weighted the rhythm of her heartbeat. The light seemed to flutter defectively. “Please, child…a gift from my husband.”
“But it’s beautiful and I want it,” said Miriam. “Give it to me.”
As she stood, striving to shape a sentence which would somehow save the brooch, it came to Mrs. Miller there was no one to whom she might turn; she was alone; a fact that had not been among her thoughts for a long time. Its sheer emphasis was stunning. But here in her own room in the hushed show-city were evidences she could not ignore or, she knew with startling clarity, resist.
Miriam ate ravenously, and when the sandwiches and milk were gone, her fingers made cobweb movements over the plate, gathering crumbs. The cameo gleamed on her blouse, the blond profile like a trick reflection on its wearer. “That was very nice,” she sighed, “though now an almond cake or a cherry would be ideal. Sweets are lovely, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Miller was perched precariously on the hassock, smoking a cigarette. Her hairnet had slipped lopsided and loose strands straggled down her face. Her eyes were stupidly concentrated on nothing and her cheeks were mottled in red patches, as though a fierce slap had left permanent marks.
“Is there a candy—a cake?”
Mrs. Miller tapped ash on the rug. Her head swayed slightly as she tried to focus her eyes. “You promised to leave if I made the sandwiches,” she said.
“Dear me, did I?”
“It was a promise and I’m tired and I don’t feel well at all.”
“Mustn’t fret,” said Miriam. “I’m only teasing.”
She picked up her coat, slung it over her arm, and arranged her beret in front of a mirror. Presently she bent close to Mrs. Miller and whispered, “Kiss me good night.”
“Please—I’d rather not,” said Mrs. Miller.
Miriam lifted a shoulder, arched an eyebrow. “As you like,” she said, and went directly to the coffee table, seized the vase containing the paper roses, carried it to where the hard surface of the floor lay bare, and hurled it downward. Glass sprayed in all directions and she stamped her foot on the bouquet.
Then slowly she walked to the door, but before closing it she looked back at Mrs. Miller with a slyly innocent curiosity.
Mrs. Miller spent the next day in bed, rising once to feed the canary and drink a cup of tea; she took her temperature and had none, yet her dreams were feverishly agitated; their unbalanced mood lingered even as she lay staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. One dream threaded through the others like an elusively mysterious theme in a complicated symphony, and the scenes it depicted were sharply outlined, as though sketched by a hand of gifted intensity: a small girl, wearing a bridal gown and a wreath of leaves, led a gray procession down a mountain path, and among them there was unusual silence till a woman at the rear asked, “Where is she taking us?” ”No one knows,” said an old man marching in front. “But isn’t she pretty?” volunteered a third voice. “Isn’t she like a frost flower…so shining and white?”
Tuesday morning she woke up feeling better; harsh slats of sunlight, slanting through the Venetian blinds, shed a disrupting light on her unwholesome fancies. She opened the window to discover a thawed, mild-as-spring day; a sweep of clean new clouds crumpled against a vastly blue, out-of-season sky; and across the low line of rooftops she could see the river and smoke curving from tugboat stacks in a warm wind. A great silver truck plowed the snow-banked street, its machine sound humming on the air.
After straightening the apartment, she went to the grocer’s, cashed a check and continued to Schrafft’s, where she ate breakfast and chatted happily with the waitress. Oh, it was a wonderful day more like a holiday—and it would be so foolish to go home.
She boarded a Lexington Avenue bus and rose up to Eighty-sixth Street; it was here that she decided to do a little shopping.
She had no idea what she wanted or needed, but she idled along, intent only upon the passers-by, brisk and preoccupied, who gave her a disturbing sense of separateness.
It was while waiting at the corner of Third Avenue that she saw the man: an old man, bowlegged and stooped under an armload of bulging packages; he wore a shabby brown coat and a checkered cap. Suddenly she realized they were exchanging a smile: there was nothing friendly about this smile, it was merely two cold flickers of recognition. But she was certain she had never seen him before.
He was standing next to an El pillar, and as she crossed the street he turned and followed. He kept quite close; from the corner of her eyes she watched his reflection wavering on the shop windows.
Then in the middle of the block she stopped and faced him. He stopped also and cocked his head, grinning. But what could she say? Do? Here, in broad daylight, on Eighty-sixth Street? It was useless and, despising her own helplessness, she quickened her steps.
Now Second Avenue is a dismal street, made from scraps and ends; part cobblestone, part asphalt, part cement; and its atmosphere of desertion is permanent. Mrs. Miller walked five blocks without meeting anyone, and all the while the steady crunch of his footfalls in the snow stayed near. And when she came to a florist’s shop, the sound was still with her. She hurried inside and watched through the glass door as the old man passed; he kept his eyes straight ahead and didn’t slow his pace, but he did one strange, telling thing: he tipped his cap.
“Six white ones, did you say?” asked the florist. “Yes,” she told him, “white roses.” From there she went to a glassware store and selected a vase, presumably a replacement for the one Miriam had broken, thought the price was intolerable and the vase itself (she thought) grotesquely vulgar. But a series of unaccountable purchases had begun, as if by prearranged plan: a plan of which she had not the least knowledge or control.
She bought a bag of glazed cherries, and at a place called the Knickerbocker Bakery she paid forty cents for six almond cakes.
Within the last hour the weather had turned cold again; like blurred lenses, winter clouds cast a shade over the sun, and the skeleton of an early dusk colored the sky; a damp mist mixed with the wind and the voices of a few children who romped high on mountains of gutter snow seemed lonely and cheerless. Soon the first flake fell, and when Mrs. Miller reached the brownstone house, snow was falling in a swift screen and foot tracks vanished as they were printed.
The white roses were arranged decoratively in the vase. The glazed cherries shone on a ceramic plate. The almond cakes, dusted with sugar, awaited a hand. The canary fluttered on its swing and picked at a bar of seed.
At precisely five the doorbell rang. Mrs. Miller knew who it was. The hem of her housecoat trailed as she crossed the floor. “Is that you?” she called.
“Naturally,” said Miriam, the word resounding shrilly from the hall. “Open this door.”
“Go away,” said Mrs. Miller.
“Please hurry…I have a heavy package.”
“Go away,” said Mrs. Miller. She returned to the living room, lighted a cigarette, sat down and calmly listened to the buzzer; on and on and on. “You might as well leave. I have no intention of letting you in.”
Shortly the bell stopped. For possibly ten minutes Mrs. Miller did not move. Then, hearing no sound, she concluded Miriam had gone. She tiptoed to the door and opened it a sliver; Miriam was half-reclining atop a cardboard box with a beautiful French doll cradled in her arms.
“Really, I thought you were never coming,” she said peevishly. “Here, help me get this in, it’s awfully heavy.”
It was no spell-like compulsion that Mrs. Miller felt, but rather a curious passivity; she brought in the box, Miriam the doll. Miriam curled up on the sofa, not troubling to remove her coat or beret, and watched disinterestedly as Mrs. Miller dropped the box and stood trembling, trying to catch her breath.
“Thank you,” she said. In the daylight she looked pinched and drawn, her hair less luminous. The French doll she was loving wore an exquisite powdered wig and its idiot glass eyes sought solace in Miriam’s. “I have a surprise,” she continued. “Look into my box.”
Kneeling, Mrs. Miller parted the flaps and lifted out another doll; then a blue dress which she recalled as the one Miriam had worn that first night at the theatre; and of the reminder she said, “It’s all clothes. Why?”
“Because I’ve come to live with you,” said Miriam, twisting a cherry stem. “Wasn’t it nice of you to buy me the cherries…?”
“But you can’t! For God’s sake go away—go away and leave me alone!”
“…and the roses and the almond cakes? How really wonderfully generous. You know, these cherries are delicious. The last place I lived was with an old man; he was terribly poor and we never had good things to eat. But I think I’ll be happy here.” She paused to snuggle her doll closer. “Now, if you’ll just show me where to put my things…”
Mrs. Miller’s face dissolved into a mask of ugly red lines; she began to cry, and it was an unnatural, tearless sort of weeping, as though, not having wept for a long time, she had forgotten how. Carefully she edged backward till she touched the door.
She fumbled through the hall and down the stairs to a landing below. She pounded frantically on the door of the first apartment she came to; a short, redheaded man answered and she pushed past him. “Say, what the hell is this?” he said. “Anything wrong, lover?” asked a young woman who appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands. And it was to her that Mrs. Miller turned.
“Listen,” she cried, “I’m ashamed behaving this way but—well, I’m Mrs. H. T. Miller and I live upstairs and…” She pressed her hands over her face. “It sounds so absurd…”
The woman guided her to a chair, while the man excitedly rattled pocket change. “Yeah?”
“I live upstairs and there’s a little girl visiting me, and I suppose that I’m afraid of her. She won’t leave and I can’t make her and—she’s going to do something terrible. She’s already stolen my cameo, but she’s about to do something worse—more terrible.”
The man asked, “Is she a relative, huh?”
Mrs. Miller shook her head. “I don’t know who she is. Her name’s Miriam, but I don’t know for certain who she is.
“You gotta calm down, honey,” said the woman, stroking Mrs. Miller’s arm. “Harry here will tend to this kid. Go on, lover.” And Mrs. Miller said, “The door’s open—5A.”
After the man left, the woman brought a towel and bathed Mrs. Miller’s face. “You’re very kind,” Mrs. Miller said. “I’m sorry to act like such a fool, only this wicked child.”
“Sure, honey,” consoled the woman. “Now, you better take it easy.”
Mrs. Miller rested her head in the crook of her arm; she was quiet enough to be asleep. The woman turned a radio dial; a piano and a husky voice filled the silence and the woman, tapping her foot, kept excellent time. “Maybe we oughta go up too,” she said.
“I don’t want to see her again. I don’t want to be anywhere near her.”
“Uh-huh, but what you shoulda done, you shoulda called a cop.”
Presently they heard the man on the stairs. He strode into the room frowning and scratching the back of his neck. “Nobody there,” he said, honestly embarrassed. “She musta beat it.”
“Harry, you’re a jerk,” announced the woman. “We been sitting here the whole time and we woulda seen…” She stopped abruptly, for the man’s glance was sharp.
“I looked all over,” he said, “and there just ain’t nobody there. Nobody, understand?”
“Tell me,” said Mrs. Miller, rising, “tell me, did you see a large box? Or a doll?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t.”
And the woman, as if delivering a verdict, said, “Well, for cryinoutloud…”
Mrs. Miller entered her apartment softly; she walked to the center of the room and stood quite still. No, in a sense it had not changed: the roses, the cakes, and the cherries were in place. But t his was an empty room, emptier than if the furnishings and familiars were not present, lifeless and petrified as a funeral parlor. The sofa loomed before her with a new strangeness: its vacancy had a meaning that would have been less penetrating and terrible had Miriam been curled on it. She gazed fixedly at the space where she remembered setting the and, for a moment, the hassock spun desperately. And she looked through the window; surely the river was real, surely snow was falling—but then, one could not be certain witness to anything: Miriam, so vividly there—and yet, where was she? Where? Where?
As though moving in a dream, she sank to a chair. The room was losing shape; it was dark and getting darker and there was nothing to be done about it; she could not life her hand to light a lamp.
Suddenly, closing her eyes, she felt an upward surge, like a diver emerging from some deeper, greener depth. In times of terror or immense distress, there are moments when the mind waits, as though for a revelation, while a skein of calm is woven over thought; it is like a sleep, or a supernatural trance; and during this lull one is aware of a force of quiet reasoning: well, what if she had never really known a girl named Miriam? That she had been foolishly frightened on the street? In the end, like everything else, it was of no importance. For the only thing she had lost to Miriam was her identity, but now she knew she had found again the person who lived in this room, who cooked her own meals, who owned a canary, who was someone she could trust and believe in: Mrs. H. T. Miller.
Listening in contentment, she became aware of a double sound: a bureau drawer opening and closing, she seemed to hear it long after completion—opening and closing. Then gradually, the harshness of it was replaced by the murmur of a silk dress and this, delicately faint, was moving nearer and swelling in intensity till the walls trembled with the vibration and the room was caving under a wave of whispers. Mrs. Miller stiffened and opened her eyes to a dull, direct stare.
The Farmington Writers Circle meets tonight at 7:00 p.m. at Hastings Hardback Café on 20th Street. The topic of the evening will be writing pitches and hooks and will be led by Traci HalesVass, assistant professor of English at San Juan College.The meeting is open to the general public.
The Farmington Writers Circle is a nascent organization of authors and writers, who are interested in publishing and marketing their works.
Please contact Phil Slattery via this website with any questions or comments.
Tonight at 7:00 p.m, the Farmington Writers Circle will meet once at the Hastings Hardback Café on 20th Street in Farmington, NM. The topic for discussion will be writing pitches and hooks. With that in mind, I am posting the link above leading to an interesting contest from Anaspoke in which the contestant writing the best pitch for an actual or planned novel wins a free cover design. I hope that we will be able to use these pitch examples in our discussion. I believe the deadline for entries is past, but you can still vote.
Visit Anaspoke’s page via the link above for details and to see the contest entries.
I received word today that my short story “Wolfsheim” will be re-printed in Dark Fire Fictionwithin the next couple of weeks. “Wolfsheim” was previously published in 2005 by Midnight Times. Midnight Times editor Jay Manning said of “Wolfsheim”:
”Wolfsheim” is basically a traditional horror story that tells the tale of a small European village confronted by the threat of werewolves. If you like stories about lycans, you definitely need to check this one out. Great stuff.”
Drop by Dark Fire Fictionsometime over the next couple of weeks and check out the story.
This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html
When the student of medicine, Richard Bracquemont, decided to move
into room #7 of the small Hotel Stevens, Rue Alfred Stevens (Paris 6),
three persons had already hanged themselves from the cross-bar of the
window in that room on three successive Fridays.
The first was a Swiss traveling salesman. They found his corpse on
Saturday evening. The doctor determined that the death must have
occurred between five and six o’clock on Friday afternoon. The corpse
hung on a strong hook that had been driven into the window’s cross-bar
to serve as a hanger for articles of clothing. The window was closed,
and the dead man had used the curtain cord as a noose. Since the
window was very low, he hung with his knees practically touching the
floor-a sign of the great discipline the suicide must have exercised
in carrying out his design. Later, it was learned that he was a
married man, a father. He had been a man of a continually happy
disposition; a man who had achieved a secure place in life. There was
not one written word to be found that would have shed light on his
suicide…not even a will.
Furthermore, none of his acquaintances could recall hearing anything
at all from him that would have permitted anyone to predict his end.
The second case was not much different. The artist, Karl Krause, a
high wire cyclist in the nearby Medrano Circus, moved into room ¹7 two
Hanns Heinz Ewers 1871-1943
days later. When he did not show up at Friday’s performance, the
director sent an employee to the hotel. There, he found Krause in the
unlocked room hanging from the window cross-bar in circumstances
exactly like those of the previous suicide. This death was as
perplexing as the first. Krause was popular. He earned a very high
salary, and had appeared to enjoy life at its fullest. Once again,
there was no suicide note; no sinister hints. Krause’s sole survivor
was his mother to whom the son had regularly sent 300 marks on the
first of the month.
For Madame Dubonnet, the owner of the small, cheap guesthouse whose
clientele was composed almost completely of employees in a nearby
Montmartre vaudeville theater, this second curious death in the same
room had very unpleasant consequences. Already several of her guests
had moved out, and other regular clients had not come back. She
appealed for help to her personal friend, the inspector of police of
the ninth precinct, who assured her that he would do everything in his
power to help her. He pushed zealously ahead not only with the
investigation into the grounds for the suicides of the two guests, but
he also placed an officer in the mysterious room.
This man, Charles-Maria Chaumié, actually volunteered for the task.
Chaumié was an old “Marsouin,” a marine sergeant with eleven years of
service, who had lain so many nights at posts in Tonkin and Annam, and
had greeted so many stealthily creeping river pirates with a shot from
his rifle that he seemed ideally suited to encounter the “ghost” that
everyone on Rue Alfred Stevens was talking about.
From then on, each morning and each evening, Chaumié paid a brief
visit to the police station to make his report, which, for the first
few days, consisted only of his statement that he had not noticed
anything unusual. On Wednesday evening, however, he hinted that he had
found a clue.
Pressed to say more, he asked to be allowed more time before making
any comment, since he was not sure that what he had discovered had any
relationship to the two deaths, and he was afraid he might say
something that would make him look foolish.
On Thursday, his behavior seemed a bit uncertain, but his mood was
noticeably more serious. Still, he had nothing to report. On Friday
morning, he came in very excited and spoke, half humorously, half
seriously, of the strangely attractive power that his window had. He
would not elaborate this notion and said that, in any case, it had
nothing to do with the suicides; and that it would be ridiculous of
him to say any more. When, on that same Friday, he failed to make his
regular evening report, someone went to his room and found him hanging
from the cross-bar of the window.
All the circumstances, down to the minutest detail, were the same here
as in the previous cases. Chaumié’s legs dragged along the ground. The
curtain cord had been used for a noose. The window was closed, the
door to the room had not been locked and death had occurred at six
o’clock. The dead man’s mouth was wide open, and his tongue protruded
from it.
Chaumié’s death, the third in as many weeks in room #7, had the
following consequences: all the guests, with the exception of a German
high-school teacher in room #16, moved out. The teacher took advantage
of the occasion to have his rent reduced by a third. The next day,
Mary Garden, the famous Opéra Comique singer, drove up to the Hotel
Stevens and paid two hundred francs for the red curtain cord, saying
it would bring her luck. The story, small consolation for Madame
Dubonnet, got into the papers.
If these events had occurred in summer, in July or August, Madame
Dubonnet would have secured three times that price for her cord, but
as it was in the middle of a troubled year, with elections, disorders
in the Balkans, bank crashes in New York, the visit of the King and
Queen of England, the result was that the affaire Rue Alfred Stevens
was talked of less than it deserved to be. As for the newspaper
accounts, they were brief, being essentially the police reports word
for word.
These reports were all that Richard Bracquemont, the medical student,
knew of the matter.
There was one detail about which he knew nothing because neither the
police inspector nor any of the eyewitnesses had mentioned it to the
press. It was only later, after what happened to the medical student,
that anyone remembered that when the police removed Sergeant Charles-
Maria Chaumié’s body from the window cross-bar a large black spider
crawled from the dead man’s open mouth. A hotel porter flicked it
away, exclaiming, “Ugh, another of those damned creatures.”
When in later investigations which concerned themselves mostly with
Bracquemont the servant was interrogated, he said that he had seen a
similar spider crawling on the Swiss traveling salesman’s shoulder
when his body was removed from the window cross-bar. But Richard
Bracquemont knew nothing of all this.
It was more than two weeks after the last suicide that Bracquemont
moved into the room. It was a Sunday. Bracquemont conscientiously
recorded everything that happened to him in his journal. That journal
now follows.
Monday, February 28 I moved in yesterday evening. I unpacked my two
wicker suitcases and straightened the room a little. Then I went to
bed. I slept so soundly that it was nine o’clock the next morning
before a knock at my door woke me. It was my hostess, bringing me
breakfast herself. One could read her concern for me in the eggs, the
bacon and the superb café au lait she brought me. I washed and
dressed, then smoked a pipe as I watched the servant make up the room.
So, here I am. I know well that the situation may prove dangerous, but
I think I may just be the one to solve the problem. If, once upon a
time, Paris was worth a mass (conquest comes at a dearer rate these
days), it is well worth risking my life pour un si bel enjeu. I have
at least one chance to win, and I mean to risk it. As it is, I’m not
the only one who has had this notion. Twenty-seven people have tried
for access to the room. Some went to the police, some went directly to
the hotel owner. There were even three women among the candidates.
There was plenty of competition. No doubt the others are poor devils
like me.
And yet, it was I who was chosen. Why? Because I was the only one who
hinted that I had some plan-or the semblance of a plan. Naturally, I
was bluffing.
These journal entries are intended for the police. I must say that it
amuses me to tell those gentlemen how neatly I fooled them. If the
Inspector has any sense, he’ll say, “Hm. This Bracquemont is just the
man we need.” In any case, it doesn’t matter what he’ll say. The point
is I’m here now, and I take it as a good sign that I’ve begun my task
by bamboozling the police.
I had gone first to Madame Dubonnet, and it was she who sent me to the
police. They put me off for a whole week-as they put off my rivals as
well. Most of them gave up in disgust, having something better to do
than hang around the musty squad room. The Inspector was beginning to
get irritated at my tenacity. At last, he told me I was wasting my
time. That the police had no use for bungling amateurs. “Ah, if only
you had a plan. Then…”
On the spot, I announced that I had such a plan, though naturally I
had no such thing. Still, I hinted that my plan was brilliant, but
dangerous, that it might lead to the same end as that which had
overtaken the police officer, Chaumié. Still, I promised to describe
it to him if he would give me his word that he would personally put it
into effect. He made excuses, claiming he was too busy but when he
asked me to give him at least a hint of my plan, I saw that I had
picqued his interest.
I rattled off some nonsense made up of whole cloth. God alone knows
where it all came from.
I told him that six o’clock of a Friday is an occult hour. It is the
last hour of the Jewish week; the hour when Christ disappeared from
his tomb and descended into hell. That he would do well to remember
that the three suicides had taken place at approximately that hour.
That was all I could tell him just then, I said, but I pointed him to
The Revelations of St. John.
The Inspector assumed the look of a man who understood all that I had
been saying, then he asked me to come back that evening.
I returned, precisely on time, and noted a copy of the New Testament
on the Inspector’s desk. I had, in the meantime, been at the
Revelations myself without however having understood a syllable.
Perhaps the Inspector was cleverer than I. Very politely-nay-
deferentially, he let me know that, despite my extremely vague
intimations, he believed he grasped my line of thought and was ready
to expedite my plan in every way.
And here, I must acknowledge that he has indeed been tremendously
helpful. It was he who made the arrangement with the owner that I was
to have anything I needed so long as I stayed in the room. The
Inspector gave me a pistol and a police whistle, and he ordered the
officers on the beat to pass through the Rue Alfred Stevens as often
as possible, and to watch my window for any signal. Most important of
all, he had a desk telephone installed which connects directly with
the police station. Since the station is only four minutes away, I see
no reason to be afraid.
Wednesday, March 1 Nothing has happened. Not yesterday. Not today.
Madame Dubonnet brought a new curtain cord from another room-the rooms
are mostly empty, of course. Madame Dubonnet takes every opportunity
to visit me, and each time she brings something with her. I have asked
her to tell me again everything that happened here, but I have learned
nothing new. She has her own opinion of the suicides. Her view is that
the music hall artist, Krause, killed himself because of an unhappy
love affair. During the last year that Krause lived in the hotel, a
young woman had made frequent visits to him. These visits had stopped,
just before his death. As for the Swiss gentleman, Madame Dubonnet
confessed herself baffled. On the other hand, the death of the
policeman was easy to explain. He had killed himself just to annoy
her.
These are sad enough explanations, to be sure, but I let her babble on
to take the edge off my boredom.
Thursday, March 3 Still nothing. The Inspector calls twice a day. Each
time, I tell him that all is well. Apparently, these words do not
reassure him.
I have taken out my medical books and I study, so that my self-imposed
confinement will have some purpose.
Friday. March 4 I ate uncommonly well at noon. The landlady brought me
half a bottle of champagne. It seemed a meal for a condemned man.
Madame Dubonnet looked at me as if I were already three-quarters dead.
As she was leaving, she begged me tearfully to come with her, fearing
no doubt that I would hang myself ‘just to annoy her.’
I studied the curtain cord once again. Would I hang myself with it?
Certainly, I felt little desire to do so. The cord is stiff and rough-
not the sort of cord one makes a noose of. One would need to be truly
determined before one could imitate the others.
I am seated now at my table. At my left, the telephone. At my right,
the revolver. I’m not frightened; but I am curious.
Six o’clock, the same evening Nothing has happened. I was about to
add, “Unfortunately.” The fatal hour has come-and has gone, like any
six o’clock on any evening. I won’t hide the fact that I occasionally
felt a certain impulse to go to the window, but for a quite different
reason than one might imagine.
The Inspector called me at least ten times between five and six
o’clock. He was as impatient as I was. Madame Dubonnet, on the other
hand, is happy. A week has passed without someone in #7 hanging
himself. Marvelous.
Monday, March 7 I have a growing conviction that I will learn nothing;
that the previous suicides are related to the circumstances
surrounding the lives of the three men. I have asked the Inspector to
investigate the cases further, convinced that someone will find their
motivations. As for me, I hope to stay here as long as possible. I may
not conquer Paris here, but I live very well and I’m fattening up
nicely. I’m also studying hard, and I am making real progress. There
is another reason, too, that keeps me here.
Wednesday, March 9 So! I have taken one step more. Clarimonda.
I haven’t yet said anything about Clarimonda. It is she who is my
“third” reason for staying here. She is also the reason I was tempted
to go to the window during the “fateful” hour last Friday. But of
course, not to hang myself.
Clarimonda. Why do I call her that? I have no idea what her name is,
but it ought to be Clarimonda. When finally I ask her name, I’m sure
it will turn out to be Clarimonda.
I noticed her almost at once…in the very first days. She lives
across the narrow street; and her window looks right into mine. She
sits there, behind her curtains.
I ought to say that she noticed me before I saw her; and that she was
obviously interested in me. And no wonder. The whole neighborhood
knows I am here, and why. Madame Dubonnet has seen to that.
I am not of a particularly amorous disposition. In fact, my relations
with women have been rather meager. When one comes from Verdun to
Paris to study medicine, and has hardly money enough for three meals a
day, one has something else to think about besides love. I am then not
very experienced with women, and I may have begun my adventure with
her stupidly. Never mind. It’s exciting just the same.
At first, the idea of establishing some relationship with her simply
did not occur to me. It was only that, since I was here to make
observations, and, since there was nothing in the room to observe, I
thought I might as well observe my neighbor-openly, professionally.
Anyhow, one can’t sit all day long just reading.
Clarimonda, I have concluded, lives alone in the small flat across the
way. The flat has three windows, but she sits only before the window
that looks into mine. She sits there, spinning on an old-fashioned
spindle, such as my grandmother inherited from a great aunt. I had no
idea anyone still used such spindles. Clarimonda’s spindle is a lovely
object. It appears to be made of ivory; and the thread she spins is of
an exceptional fineness. She works all day behind her curtains, and
stops spinning only as the sun goes down. Since darkness comes
abruptly here in this narrow street and in this season of fogs,
Clarimonda disappears from her place at five o’clock each evening.
I have never seen a light in her flat.
What does Clarimonda look like? I’m not quite sure. Her hair is black
and wavy; her face pale.
Her nose is short and finely shaped with delicate nostrils that seem
to quiver. Her lips, too, are pale: and when she smiles, it seems that
her small teeth are as keen as those of some beast of prey.
Her eyelashes are long and dark; and her huge dark eyes have an
intense glow. I guess all these details more than I know them. It is
hard to see clearly through the curtains.
Something else: she always wears a black dress embroidered with a
lilac motif; and black gloves, no doubt to protect her hands from the
effects of her work. It is a curious sight: her delicate hands moving
perpetually, swiftly grasping the thread, pulling it, releasing it,
taking it up again; as if one were watching the indefatigable motions
of an insect.
Our relationship? For the moment, still very superficial, though it
feels deeper. It began with a sudden exchange of glances in which each
of us noted the other. I must have pleased her, because one day she
studied me a while longer, then smiled tentatively. Naturally, I
smiled back. In this fashion, two days went by, each of us smiling
more frequently with the passage of time. Yet something kept me from
greeting her directly.
Until today. This afternoon, I did it. And Clarimonda returned my
greeting. It was done subtly enough, to be sure, but I saw her nod.
Thursday, March 10 Yesterday, I sat for a long time over my books,
though I can’t truthfully say that I studied much. I built castles in
the air and dreamed of Clarimonda.
I slept fitfully.
This morning, when I approached my window, Clarimonda was already in
her place. I waved, and she nodded back. She laughed and studied me
for a long time.
I tried to read, but I felt much too uneasy. Instead, I sat down at my
window and gazed at Clarimonda. She too had laid her work aside. Her
hands were folded in her lap. I drew my curtain wider with the window
cord, so that I might see better. At the same moment, Clarimonda did
the same with the curtains at her window. We exchanged smiles.
We must have spent a full hour gazing at each other.
Finally, she took up her spinning.
Saturday, March 12 The days pass. I eat and drink. I sit at the desk.
I light my pipe; I look down at my book but I don’t read a word,
though I try again and again. Then I go to the window where I wave to
Clarimonda. She nods. We smile. We stare at each other for hours.
Yesterday afternoon, at six o’clock, I grew anxious. The twilight came
early, bringing with it something like anguish. I sat at my desk. I
waited until I was invaded by an irresistible need to go to the
window-not to hang myself; but just to see Clarimonda. I sprang up and
stood beside the curtain where it seemed to me I had never been able
to see so clearly, though it was already dark.
Clarimonda was spinning, but her eyes looked into mine. I felt myself
strangely contented even as I experienced a light sensation of fear.
The telephone rang. It was the Inspector tearing me out of my trance
with his idiotic questions.
I was furious.
This morning, the Inspector and Madame Dubonnet visited me. She is
enchanted with how things are going. I have now lived for two weeks in
room #7. The Inspector, however, does not feel he is getting results.
I hinted mysteriously that I was on the trail of something most
unusual.
The jackass took me at my word and fulfilled my dearest wish. I’ve
been allowed to stay in the room for another week. God knows it isn’t
Madame Dubonnet’s cooking or wine-cellar that keeps me here. How
quickly one can be sated with such things. No. I want to stay because
of the window Madame Dubonnet fears and hates. That beloved window
that shows me Clarimonda.
I have stared out of my window, trying to discover whether she ever
leaves her room, but I’ve never seen her set foot on the street.
As for me, I have a large, comfortable armchair and a green shade over
the lamp whose glow envelopes me in warmth. The Inspector has left me
with a huge packet of fine tobacco-and yet I cannot work. I read two
or three pages only to discover that I haven’t understood a word. My
eyes see the letters, but my brain refuses to make any sense of them.
Absurd. As if my brain were posted: ‘No Trespassing.’ It is as if
there were no room in my head for any other thought than the one:
Clarimonda. I push my books away; I lean back deeply into my chair. I
dream.
Sunday, March 13 This morning I watched a tiny drama while the servant
was tidying my room. I was strolling in the corridor when I paused
before a small window in which a large garden spider had her web.
Madame Dubonnet will not have it removed because she believes spiders
bring luck, and she’s had enough misfortunes in her house lately.
Today, I saw a much smaller spider, a male, moving across the strong
threads towards the middle of the web, but when his movements alerted
the female, he drew back shyly to the edge of the web from which he
made a second attempt to cross it. Finally, the female in the middle
appeared attentive to his wooing, and stopped moving. The male tugged
at a strand gently, then more strongly till the whole web shook. The
female stayed motionless. The male moved quickly forward and the
female received him quietly, calmly, giving herself over completely to
his embraces. For a long minute, they hung together motionless at the
center of the huge web.
Then I saw the male slowly extricating himself, one leg over the
other. It was as if he wanted tactfully to leave his companion alone
in the dream of love, but as he started away, the female, overwhelmed
by a wild life, was after him, hunting him ruthlessly. The male let
himself drop from a thread; the female followed, and for a while the
lovers hung there, imitating a piece of art. Then they fell to the
window-sill where the male, summoning all his strength, tried again to
escape. Too late. The female already had him in her powerful grip, and
was carrying him back to the center of the web. There, the place that
had just served as the couch for their lascivious embraces took on
quite another aspect. The lover wriggled, trying to escape from the
female’s wild embrace, but she was too much for him. It was not long
before she had wrapped him completely in her thread, and he was
helpless. Then she dug her sharp pincers into his body, and sucked
full draughts of her young lover’s blood. Finally, she detached
herself from the pitiful and unrecognizable shell of his body and
threw it out of her web.
So that is what love is like among these creatures. Well for me that I
am not a spider.
Monday, March 14 I don’t look at my books any longer. I spend my days
at the window. When it is dark, Clarimonda is no longer there, but if
I close my eyes, I continue to see her.
This journal has become something other than I intended. I’ve spoken
about Madame Dubonnet, about the Inspector; about spiders and about
Clarimonda. But I’ve said nothing about the discoveries I undertook to
make. It can’t be helped.
Tuesday, March 15 We have invented a strange game, Clarimonda and I.
We play it all day long. I greet her; then she greets me. Then I tap
my fingers on the windowpanes. The moment she sees me doing that, she
too begins tapping. I wave to her; she waves back. I move my lips as
if speaking to her; she does the same. I run my hand through my sleep-
disheveled hair and instantly her hand is at her forehead. It is a
child’s game, and we both laugh over it. Actually, she doesn’t laugh.
She only smiles a gently contained smile. And I smile back in the same
way.
The game is not as trivial as it seems. It’s not as if we were grossly
imitating each other-that would weary us both. Rather, we are
communicating with each other. Sometimes, telepathically, it would
seem, since Clarimonda follows my movements instantaneously almost
before she has had time to see them. I find myself inventing new
movements, or new combinations of movements, but each time she repeats
them with disconcerting speed. Sometimes. I change the order of the
movements to surprise her, making whole series of gestures as rapidly
as possible; or I leave out some motions and weave in others, the way
children play “Simon Says.” What is amazing is that Clarimonda never
once makes a mistake, no matter how quickly I change gestures.
That’s how I spend my days…hut never for a moment do I feel that I’m
killing time. It seems, on the contrary, that never in my life have I
been better occupied.
Wednesday. March 16 Isn’t it strange that it hasn’t occurred to me to
put my relationship with Clarimonda on a more serious basis than these
endless games. Last night, I thought about this…I can, of course,
put on my hat and coat, walk down two flights of stairs, take five
steps across the street and mount two flights to her door which is
marked with a small sign that says “Clarimonda.” Clarimonda what? I
don’t know. Something. Then I can knock and…
Up to this point I imagine everything very clearly, but I cannot see
what should happen next. I know that the door opens. But then I stand
before it, looking into a dark void. Clarimonda doesn’t come. Nothing
comes. Nothing is there, only the black, impenetrable dark.
Sometimes, it seems to me that there can be no other Clarimonda but
the one I see in the window; the one who plays gesture-games with me.
I cannot imagine a Clarimonda wearing a hat, or a dress other than her
black dress with the lilac motif. Nor can I imagine a Clarimonda
without black gloves. The very notion that I might encounter
Clarimonda somewhere in the streets or in a restaurant eating,
drinking or chatting is so improbable that it makes me laugh.
Sometimes I ask myself whether I love her. It’s impossible to say,
since I have never loved before. However, if the feeling that I have
for Clarimonda is really-love, then love is something entirely
different from anything I have seen among my friends or read about in
novels.
It is hard for me to be sure of my feelings and harder still to think
of anything that doesn’t relate to Clarimonda or, what is more
important, to our game. Undeniably, it is our game that concerns me.
Nothing else-and this is what I understand least of all.
There is no doubt that I am drawn to Clarimonda, but with this
attraction there is mingled another feeling, fear. No. That’s not it
either. Say rather a vague apprehension in the presence of the
unknown. And this anxiety has a strangely voluptuous quality so that I
am at the same time drawn to her even as I am repelled by her. It is
as if I were moving in giant circles around her, sometimes coming
close, sometimes retreating…back and forth, back and forth.
Once, I am sure of it, it will happen, and I will join her.
Clarimonda sits at her window and spins her slender, eternally fine
thread, making a strange cloth whose purpose I do not understand. I am
amazed that she is able to keep from tangling her delicate thread.
Hers is surely a remarkable design, containing mythical beasts and
strange masks.
Thursday, March 17 I am curiously excited. I don’t talk to people any
more. I barely say “hello” to Madame Dubonnet or to the servant. I
hardly give myself time to eat. All I can do is sit at the window and
play the game with Clarimonda. It is an enthralling game.
Overwhelming.
I have the feeling something will happen tomorrow.
Friday, March 18 Yes. Yes. Something will happen today. I tell myself-
as loudly as I can–that that’s why I am here. And yet, horribly
enough, I am afraid. And in the fear that the same thing is going to
happen to me as happened to my predecessors, there is strangely
mingled another fear: a terror of Clarimonda. And I cannot separate
the two fears.
I am frightened. I want to scream.
Six o’clock, evening I have my hat and coat on. Just a couple of
words.
At five o’clock, I was at the end of my strength. I’m perfectly aware
now that there is a relationship between my despair and the “sixth
hour” that was so significant in the previous weeks. I no longer laugh
at the trick I played the Inspector.
I was sitting at the window, trying with all my might to stay in my
chair, but the window kept drawing me. I had to resume the game with
Clarimonda. And yet, the window horrified me. I saw the others hanging
there: the Swiss traveling salesman, fat, with a thick neck and a grey
stubbly beard; the thin artist; and the powerful police sergeant. I
saw them, one after the other, hanging from the same hook, their
mouths open, their tongues sticking out. And then, I saw myself among
them.
Oh, this unspeakable fear. It was clear to me that it was provoked as
much by Clarimonda as by the cross-bar and the horrible hook. May she
pardon me…but it is the truth. In my terror, I keep seeing the three
men hanging there, their legs dragging on the floor.
And yet, the fact is I had not felt the slightest desire to hang
myself; nor was I afraid that I would want to do so. No, it was the
window I feared; and Clarimonda. I was sure that something horrid was
going to happen. Then I was overwhelmed by the need to go to the
window-to stand before it. I had to…
The telephone rang. I picked up the receiver and before I could hear a
word, I screamed, “Come. Come at once.”
It was as if my shrill cry had in that instant dissipated the shadows
from my soul. I grew calm.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead. I drank a glass of water. Then I
considered what I should say to the Inspector when he arrived.
Finally, I went to the window. I waved and smiled. And Clarimonda too
waved and smiled.
Five minutes later, the Inspector was here. I told him that I was
getting to the bottom of the matter, but I begged him not to question
me just then. That very soon I would be in a position to make
important revelations. Strangely enough, though I was lying to him. I
myself had the feeling that I was telling the truth. Even now, against
my will, I have that same conviction.
The Inspector could not help noticing my agitated state of mind,
especially since I apologized for my anguished cry over the telephone.
Naturally, I tried to explain it to him, and yet I could not find a
single reason to give for it. He said affectionately that there was no
need ever to apologize to him; that he was always at my disposal; that
that was his duty. It was better that he should come a dozen times to
no effect rather than fail to be here when he was needed. He invited
me to go out with him for the evening. It would be a distraction for
me. It would do me good not to be alone for a while. I accepted the
invitation though I was very reluctant to leave the room.
Saturday, March 19 We went to the Gaieté Rochechouart, La Cigale, and
La Lune Rousse. The Inspector was right: It was good for me to get out
and breathe the fresh air. At first, I had an uncomfortable feeling,
as if I were doing something wrong; as if I were a deserter who had
turned his back on the flag. But that soon went away. We drank a lot,
laughed and chatted. This morning, when I went to my window,
Clarimonda gave me what I thought was a look of reproach, though I may
only have imagined it. How could she have known that I had gone out
last night? In any case, the look lasted only for an instant, then she
smiled again.
We played the game all day long.
Sunday, March 20 Only one thing to record: we played the game.
Monday, March 21 We played the game-all day long.
Tuesday, March 22 Yes, the game. We played it again. And nothing else.
Nothing at all.
Sometimes I wonder what is happening to me? What is it I want? Where
is all this leading? I know the answer: there is nothing else I want
except what is happening. It is what I want…what I long for. This
only.
Clarimonda and I have spoken with each other in the course of the last
few days, but very briefly; scarcely a word. Sometimes we moved our
lips, but more often we just looked at each other with deep
understanding.
I was right about Clarimonda’s reproachful look because I went out
with the Inspector last Friday. I asked her to forgive me. I said it
was stupid of me, and spiteful to have gone. She forgave me, and I
promised never to leave the window again. We kissed, pressing our lips
against each of our windowpanes.
Wednesday, March 23 I know now that I love Clarimonda. That she has
entered into the very fiber of my being. It may be that the loves of
other men are different. But does there exist one head, one ear, one
hand that is exactly like hundreds of millions of others? There are
always differences, and it must be so with love. My love is strange, I
know that, but is it any the less lovely because of that? Besides, my
love makes me happy.
If only I were not so frightened. Sometimes my terror slumbers and I
forget it for a few moments, then it wakes and does not leave me. The
fear is like a poor mouse trying to escape the grip of a powerful
serpent. Just wait a bit, poor sad terror. Very soon, the serpent love
will devour you.
Thursday, March 24 I have made a discovery: I don’t play with
Clarimonda. She plays with me.
Last night, thinking as always about our game, I wrote down five new
and intricate gesture patterns with which I intended to surprise
Clarimonda today. I gave each gesture a number. Then I practiced the
series, so I could do the motions as quickly as possible, forwards or
backwards. Or sometimes only the even-numbered ones, sometimes the
odd. Or the first and the last of the five patterns. It was tiring
work, but it made me happy and seemed to bring Clarimonda closer to
me. I practiced for hours until I got all the motions down pat, like
clockwork.
This morning, I went to the window. Clarimonda and I greeted each
other, then our game began. Back and forth! It was incredible how
quickly she understood what was to be done; how she kept pace with me.
There was a knock at the door. It was the servant bringing me my
shoes. I took them. On my way back to the window, my eye chanced to
fall on the slip of paper on which I had noted my gesture patterns. It
was then that I understood: in the game just finished, I had not made
use of a single one of my patterns.
I reeled back and had to hold on to the chair to keep from falling. It
was unbelievable. I read the paper again-and again. It was still true:
I had gone through a long series of gestures at the window, and not
one of the patterns had been mine.
I had the feeling, once more, that I was standing before Clarimonda’s
wide open door, through which, though I stared. I could see nothing
but a dark void. I knew, too, that if I chose to turn from that door
now. I might be saved; and that I still had the power to leave. And
yet, I did not leave—because I felt myself at the very edge of the
mystery: as if I were holding the secret in my hands.
“Paris! You will conquer Paris,” I thought. And in that instant, Paris
was more powerful than Clarimonda.
I don’t think about that any more. Now, I feel only love. Love, and a
delicious terror.
Still, the moment itself endowed me with strength. I read my notes
again, engraving the gestures on my mind. Then I went back to the
window only to become aware that there was not one of my patterns that
I wanted to use. Standing there, it occurred to me to rub the side of
my nose; instead I found myself pressing my lips to the windowpane. I
tried to drum with my fingers on the window sill; instead, I brushed
my fingers through my hair. And so I understood that it was not that
Clarimonda did what I did. Rather, my gestures followed her lead and
with such lightning rapidity that we seemed to be moving
simultaneously. I, who had been so proud because I thought I had been
influencing her, I was in fact being influenced by her. Her
influence…so gentle…so delightful.
I have tried another experiment. I clenched my hands and put them in
my pockets firmly intending not to move them one bit. Clarimonda
raised her hand and, smiling at me, made a scolding gesture with her
finger. I did not budge, and yet I could feel how my right hand wished
to leave my pocket. I shoved my fingers against the lining, but
against my will, my hand left the pocket; my arm rose into the air. In
my turn, I made a scolding gesture with my finger and smiled.
It seemed to me that it was not I who was doing all this. It was a
stranger whom I was watching.
But, of course, I was mistaken. It was I making the gesture, and the
person watching me was the stranger; that very same stranger who, not
long ago, was so sure that he was on the edge of a great discovery. In
any case, it was not I.
Of what use to me is this discovery? I am here to do Clarimonda’s
will. Clarimonda, whom I love with an anguished heart.
Friday, March 25 I have cut the telephone cord. I have no wish to be
continually disturbed by the idiotic inspector just as the mysterious
hour arrives.
God. Why did I write that? Not a word of it is true. It is as if
someone else were directing my pen.
But I want to…want to…to write the truth here…though it is
costing me great effort. But I want to…once more…do what I want.
I have cut the telephone cord…ah…
Because I had to…there it is. Had to…
We stood at our windows this morning and played the game, which is now
different from what it was yesterday. Clarimonda makes a movement and
I resist it for as long as I can. Then I give in and do what she wants
without further struggle. I can hardly express what a joy it is to be
so conquered; to surrender entirely to her will.
We played. All at once, she stood up and walked back into her room,
where I could not see her; she was so engulfed by the dark. Then she
came back with a desk telephone, like mine, in her hands. She smiled
and set the telephone on the window sill, after which she took a knife
and cut the cord. Then I carried my telephone to the window where I
cut the cord. After that, I returned my phone to its place.
That’s how it happened…
I sit at my desk where I have been drinking tea the servant brought
me. He has come for the empty teapot, and I ask him for the time,
since my watch isn’t running properly. He says it is five fifteen.
Five fifteen…
I know that if I look out of my window, Clarimonda will be there
making a gesture that I will have to imitate. I will look just the
same. Clarimonda is there, smiling. If only I could turn my eyes away
from hers.
Now she parts the curtain. She takes the cord. It is red, just like
the cord in my window. She ties a noose and hangs the cord on the hook
in the window cross–bar.
She sits down and smiles.
No. Fear is no longer what I feel. Rather, it is a sort of oppressive
terror which I would not want to avoid for anything in the world. Its
grip is irresistible, profoundly cruel, and voluptuous in its
attraction.
I could go to the window, and do what she wants me to do, but I wait.
I struggle. I resist though I feel a mounting fascination that becomes
more intense each minute.
Here I am once more. Rashly, I went to the window where I did what
Clarimonda wanted. I took the cord, tied a noose, and hung it on the
hook…
Now, I want to see nothing else-except to stare at this paper. Because
if I look. I know what she will do…now…at the sixth hour of the
last day of the week. If I see her, I will have to do what she wants.
Have to…
I won’t see her…
I laugh. Loudly. No. I’m not laughing. Something is laughing in me,
and I know why. It is because of my…I won’t…
I won’t, and yet I know very well that I have to…have to look at
her. I must…must…and then…all that follows.
If I still wait, it is only to prolong this exquisite torture. Yes,
that’s it. This breathless anguish is my supreme delight. I write
quickly, quickly…just so I can continue to sit here; so I can
attenuate these seconds of pain.
Again, terror. Again. I know that I will look toward her. That I will
stand up. That I will hang myself.
That doesn’t frighten me. That is beautiful…even precious.
There is something else. What will happen afterwards? I don’t know,
but since my torment is so delicious. I feel…feel that something
horrible must follow.
Think…think…Write something. Anything at all…to keep from
looking toward her…
My name…Richard Bracquemont. Richard Bracquemont…Richard
Bracquemont…
Richard…
I can’t…go on. I must…no…no…must look at her…Richard
Bracquemont…no . .
. no more…Richard…Richard Bracque–. . .
The inspector of the ninth precinct, after repeated and vain efforts
to telephone Richard, arrived at the Hotel Stevens at 6:05. He found
the body of the student Richard Bracquemont hanging from the cross-bar
of the window in room #7, in the same position as each of his three
predecessors.
The expression on the student’s face, however, was different,
reflecting an appalling fear.
Bracquemont’s eyes were wide open and bulging from their sockets. His
lips were drawn into a rictus, and his jaws were clamped together. A
huge black spider whose body was dotted with purple spots lay crushed
and nearly bitten in two between his teeth.
On the table, there lay the student’s journal. The inspector read it
and went immediately to investigate the house across the street. What
he learned was that the second floor of that building had not been
lived in for many months.
Phil Slattery, Writer, Publisher 