is for Loup-Garou. [Author’s Note: See earlier note under D.]
M
is for Mclnnsmouth’s. [Author’s Note: One of mine. Still mixing truth with lies and lies with truth.] Driving back from the twice-annual residency program at the university where we both teach, fellow writer Tim Waggoner and I were surprised by a sudden and somewhat brutal snowstorm. We drove slowly. A couple of hours passed. When at last we emerged from the worst of it, both us had to go to the bathroom, we were about to pass out from hunger (it had been over nine hours since our previous meal), and the gas tank was nearing empty. I checked the printed directions as well as the folded maps, and Tim checked the GPS; according to all sources, there wasn’t an exit for another thirty miles. We weren’t going to make it. But then I spotted, dimly, in the distance, something that could only have been the famous arches of gold. There was much rejoicing, for wherever one finds the arches, one find restrooms and gas stations. So happy are we to see this that we both promptly forget there isn’t supposed to be an exit here. We turn off at the end of the exit ramp and see there is only one structure, a few hundred yards to our left: the ever-familiar arches of gold, but attached to a gas station. We head toward it, tears of relief in our eyes, singing Neil Young’s “Keep on Rockin’ in the Free World” far too loudly and excruciatingly off-key. We park, go in, hit the restrooms, order our … I hesitate to use the word “food,” so in this case allow me to rephrase: We gave our orders, paid, received what we ordered, found a place to sit, and began eating. There was also a gift shop inside this structure, along with private pay-showers, and an unmarked room where patrons had to knock in a specific rhythm in order to be let in. “Is it just me,” I ask Tim, “or do a lot of the people coming in here look like they might be related to everyone who works here?” Tim begins watching. “They all look like Children of the Damned,” he responds, referring to the novel and film versions, where the alien children are all pale, with white hair and unsettling eyes. We laugh, continue eating. Then Tim’s eyes stare ahead, lock onto something, and grow a bit wider. I ask, “What is it?” He nods in the direction of the entryway behind us. I turn to look. At least a dozen more people have come in. The place is beginning to fill up. It’s nearly 11:30 P.M. on a Sunday, and it appears that where we are is the Place to Be. The dozen who have just entered look almost exactly like everyone else; same pale skin, same white hair, same unnerving eyes, the color of which I don’t know that I’ve ever seen in Nature. But now we notice that many of them sport some kind of deformity, each one growing more grotesque than the one before as even more continue coming in through the entryway. “Do you smell fish?” Tim asks me. I nod, adding, “And something that’s like an open sewer?” He nods his head. We decide to get the hell out of there while the getting’s good. The area is very crowded, and we have to excuse ourselves as we maneuver through, sometimes bumping shoulders, sometimes stepping on a spongy foot, always smiling, always apologizing, always careful to not look up into the face for fear of seeing gills on the neck. We still have to get gas. Tim calmly drives the car toward the pumps. Both of our faces are slabs of granite. We can’t let them know we know. From outside the car, we look calm and collected and engaged in rapid-fire conversation. Inside the car, we’re both saying wearesobonedwearesobonedwearesobonedshitpissfuckfuckfuck. We get out of the car once we reach the concrete fueling isle. Tim pumps the gas; I wash the windshield so I can keep an eye on the doors of the structure. Inside, the employees and patrons have all lined the windows and are standing very still, frozen specters on the deck of an ice-bound ship, staring at us. “We have enough gas,” I say. Tim looks over at the window. “Yes, yes, I think it’s safe to say I agree with you on this one, we definitely have enough gas.” He replaces the nozzle and doesn’t bother waiting for his credit card receipt. We jump in the car and peel out of there, the car fishtailing when we hit a patch of ice, but we manage to get out of there and back on the highway. In the years since then, whenever we speak of that night, we refer to it as “the McInnsmouth’s Incident.” [Author’s Note: Referring, of course, to the famous novella by H. P. Lovecraft, which neither Tim nor I can bring ourselves to read again. See earlier note under E.] As far as either of us knows, that unmarked exit is still there, and still leads to the same place. Not that we’re in any hurry to test that theory, mind you. The smell of fresh fish still gives both of us bad dreams. Sushi is right out.
N
is for Nazareth, the Scottish metal band. Specifically, for their album Hair of the Dog, which They Who Are Dictating This to Me love. Even more specifically, it is for two songs from that album: “Hair of the Dog” and “Beggars’ Day,” both of which they play almost constantly [Author’s Note: Constantly. Constantly, God help me — and would someone please explain to me what the fuck that “heartbreaker/salt-shaker” line is supposed to be about? I mean, I’m all for rock lyrics that experiment with the boundaries of metaphor, but heartbreaker/salt-shaker? Really?] — that is, when not singing praises to the Goddess who is their favorite writer. [See earlier note under J.] [Additional Note: I think my ears have actually begun to bleed.]
O
is for the Only. Places can be monsters as well; even those places that lack mass and substance. The Only — and it is sentient — is one of those places. You will reach a place in your life when it feels like all you’re doing is breathing air and taking up space, and even that hurts so goddamn much it’s all you can do to lift your head off the pillow in the morning. It doesn’t matter if you’ve got a successful career, money in the bank, people who love you; it doesn’t matter that, everywhere you look, there’s irrefutable evidence of your life’s worth — a loving wife, kids who worship and respect you, lifelong friends who’ve seen you through thick and thin, even readers who admire your work and flock to conventions in the hopes of getting your signature [Author’s Note: Not really sure if this is one of mine or not, but also realize that, at this point, what does it matter?] — none of it means squat, even though you know it should mean the world, because all you know, all you feel, all you can think about is the gnawing, constant, insatiable ache that’s taken up residence in the area where your heart used to be, and with every breath, every action, every thought and smile and kiss and laugh — things that should make this ache go away — you begin to lose even the most elementary sense of self, and the floodgates are opened wide for a torrent of memories, regrets, sadnesses, and fears that no drugs, no booze, no loving embraces or tender kisses or hands holding your own in the night can protect you from. You become the ache, and despite all your efforts to do something to make it better, eventually the ache circumscribes your entire universe, and it never goes away, and you feel useless, worthless, a black hole, a drain and burden on everyone and everything around you and try as you might you can’t see any way out of it except … The heart makes no sound when it breaks. The mind releases no scream when it collapses. The soul raises no whistling breeze when it abandons you. This is the first step into surrendering so that you may move toward the Only: Population: 1 more than seven minutes ago, thank you kindly. Does anyone know how to get old blood off an antique straight razor? [See earlier note under D, 2nd Author’s Note.]
P
is for Phantoms. At the very start, you’re standing on a beach in Florida, at the very spot where Ponce de Leon landed in 1513, hoping it was the land of Bimini where he could find the Fountain of Youth; and as you’re standing there, you can see all the way to St. Augustine, overrun with the old and sick who wait in the salt air and sunshine for death to embrace them. You open your mouth to call out — and it doesn’t matter that you don’t know to whom you’re going to call out or what you’re going to say, none of it matters, because now the sea is giving up its dead, and you, you’re pulled into the water. All of you becomes liquid, and you know the sea’s secrets, and having become liquid you watch as off the coast of the Ile de la Seine, the Ship of the Dead appears, dropping clumps of viscera and something that might be isinglass, which drift in toward shore; by the banks of the Colorado River near an Anasazi village a decaying boat of cedar and horsehide drifts to land, and from it steps a ragged and bleeding woman who kneels by an undiscovered kiva, wailing a song of loss and misery in Urdu to the god Angwusnasomtaqa, praying that the Crow Mother will return her to her mate in the Netherworld; off Ballachulish in Argyllshire a shipload of drowned crofters materializes, howling in the most dread-filled loneliness; a fisherman in Vancouver sees a mountainous trident emerge from the water, pierce through then uproot an oak before it vanishes below the surface, creating waves so powerful they smash his small boat into splinters but that’s okay, because, you see, he drowns with a happy heart because he’s seen a miracle, which is all he’s ever wanted out of life; in icy hyperborean waters another doomed vessel, captained by a German nobleman named Faulkenburg, races through the night with tongues of fire licking at its masthead; St. Brendan’s Isle appears in the Atlantic — but for only a moment, just long enough for three
