jack-o-lantern had been heaved forcefully down onto the cement, caving in its pulpy shell which had exploded into fragments lying here and there on the porch. He opened the outer door for a closer look, and a swift wind invaded the house, flying past his head on frigid wings. What a blast, close the door. Close the door!
"Little buggers," he said very clearly, an attempt to relieve his sense of disorder and delirium.
"Who, meezy-weezy?" said the voice behind him.
At the top of the stairs. A dwarfish silhouette, seemingly with something in its hand. A weapon. Well, he had his cane at least.
"How did you get in here, child?" he asked without being sure it really was a child, considering its strangely hybrid voice.
"Child yourself, sonny. No such things where I come from. No Sammy-Wammies either. I'm just in disguise."
"How did you get in?" he repeated, still hoping to establish a rational manner of entry.
"In? I was already in."
"Here?" he asked.
"No, not here. There-dee-dare." The figure was pointing out the window at the top of the stairs, out at the kaleidoscopic sky. "Isn't it a beauty? No children, no anything."
"What do you mean?" he inquired with oneiric inspiration, the normalcy of dream being the only thing that kept his mind together at this stage.
"Mean? I don't mean nothing, you meany."
Double negative, he thought, relieved to have retained contact with a real world of grammatical propriety. Double negative: two empty mirrors reflecting each other's emptiness to infinite powers, nothing cancelling out nothing.
"Nothing?" he echoed with an interrogative inflection.
"Yup, that's where you're going."
"How am I supposed to do that?" he asked, gripping his cane tightly, sensing a climax to this confrontation.
"How? Don't worry. You already made sure of how-wow-wow... TRICK OR TREAT!"
And suddenly the thing came gliding down through the darkness.
IV
He was found the next day by Father Mickiewicz, who had telephoned earlier after failing to see this clockwork parishioner appear as usual for early mass on All Souls Day. The door was wide open, and the priest discovered his body at the bottom of the stairs, its bathrobe and underclothes grotesquely disarranged. The poor man seemed to have taken another fall, a fatal one this time. Aimless life, aimless death: Thus was his death in keying with his life, as Ovid wrote. So ran the priest's ad hoc eulogy, though not the one he would deliver at the deceased's funeral.
But why was the door open if he fell down the stairs? Father M. came to ask himself. The police answered this question with theories about an intruder or intruders unknown. Given the nature of the crime, they speculated on a revenge motive, which the priest's informal testimony was quick to contradict. The idea of revenge against such a man was far-fetched, if not totally meaningless. Yes, meaningless. Nevertheless, the motive was not robbery and the man seemed to have been beaten to death, possibly with his own cane. Later evidence showed that the corpse had been violated, but with an object much longer and more coarse than the cane originally supposed. They were now looking for something with the dimensions of a broomstick, probably a very old thing, splintered and decayed. But they would never find it in the places they were searching.
The Prodigy Of Dreams
I conceived my ideal leavetaking from this earth - a drama prepared by strange portents, swiftly developed by dreams and visions nurtured in an atmosphere of sublime dread, growing overnight like some gaudy fungus in a forgotten cellar... - The Travel Diaries of Arthur Emerson
It seemed to Arthur Emerson that the swans, those perennial guests of the estate, had somehow become strange. Yet his knowledge of their natural behavior was vague, providing him with little idea of precisely how they had departed from habit or instinct. But he strongly sensed that there had indeed been such a departure, an imperceptible drifting into the
"Little buggers," he said very clearly, an attempt to relieve his sense of disorder and delirium.
"Who, meezy-weezy?" said the voice behind him.
At the top of the stairs. A dwarfish silhouette, seemingly with something in its hand. A weapon. Well, he had his cane at least.
"How did you get in here, child?" he asked without being sure it really was a child, considering its strangely hybrid voice.
"Child yourself, sonny. No such things where I come from. No Sammy-Wammies either. I'm just in disguise."
"How did you get in?" he repeated, still hoping to establish a rational manner of entry.
"In? I was already in."
"Here?" he asked.
"No, not here. There-dee-dare." The figure was pointing out the window at the top of the stairs, out at the kaleidoscopic sky. "Isn't it a beauty? No children, no anything."
"What do you mean?" he inquired with oneiric inspiration, the normalcy of dream being the only thing that kept his mind together at this stage.
"Mean? I don't mean nothing, you meany."
Double negative, he thought, relieved to have retained contact with a real world of grammatical propriety. Double negative: two empty mirrors reflecting each other's emptiness to infinite powers, nothing cancelling out nothing.
"Nothing?" he echoed with an interrogative inflection.
"Yup, that's where you're going."
"How am I supposed to do that?" he asked, gripping his cane tightly, sensing a climax to this confrontation.
"How? Don't worry. You already made sure of how-wow-wow... TRICK OR TREAT!"
And suddenly the thing came gliding down through the darkness.
IV
He was found the next day by Father Mickiewicz, who had telephoned earlier after failing to see this clockwork parishioner appear as usual for early mass on All Souls Day. The door was wide open, and the priest discovered his body at the bottom of the stairs, its bathrobe and underclothes grotesquely disarranged. The poor man seemed to have taken another fall, a fatal one this time. Aimless life, aimless death: Thus was his death in keying with his life, as Ovid wrote. So ran the priest's ad hoc eulogy, though not the one he would deliver at the deceased's funeral.
But why was the door open if he fell down the stairs? Father M. came to ask himself. The police answered this question with theories about an intruder or intruders unknown. Given the nature of the crime, they speculated on a revenge motive, which the priest's informal testimony was quick to contradict. The idea of revenge against such a man was far-fetched, if not totally meaningless. Yes, meaningless. Nevertheless, the motive was not robbery and the man seemed to have been beaten to death, possibly with his own cane. Later evidence showed that the corpse had been violated, but with an object much longer and more coarse than the cane originally supposed. They were now looking for something with the dimensions of a broomstick, probably a very old thing, splintered and decayed. But they would never find it in the places they were searching.
The Prodigy Of Dreams
I conceived my ideal leavetaking from this earth - a drama prepared by strange portents, swiftly developed by dreams and visions nurtured in an atmosphere of sublime dread, growing overnight like some gaudy fungus in a forgotten cellar... - The Travel Diaries of Arthur Emerson
It seemed to Arthur Emerson that the swans, those perennial guests of the estate, had somehow become strange. Yet his knowledge of their natural behavior was vague, providing him with little idea of precisely how they had departed from habit or instinct. But he strongly sensed that there had indeed been such a departure, an imperceptible drifting into the
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