Paula Guran - The Mammoth Book of Cthulhu

How can I explain the horror of something that seems so simple by daylight? There was nothing monstrous in the dream. The dream itself was monstrous.

I dreamt of a hallway going on forever. I was terrified. But of what? A door opening? A door refusing to open?

It is irrational to be afraid of nothing. But in the dream, it was the very nothingness that frightened me. The unknown. The sense of waiting. Wanting. Is it possible fear and desire are only two sides of the same skin? To pierce one with a needle is to pierce both. Then one only needs follow the stitching to find the way through.

Blaine forbade me from looking at the painting until it is finished. But I caught a glimpse today. It was an accident, only a moment. Perhaps it was my imagination? A trick of my overtired mind? I haven’t been sleeping well, after all.

I saw the hallway. The one full of doors. The one from my dreams. Blaine painted it behind me. I never breathed one word of it to him, but still, there it was.

He means to leave me in that terrible place, a doorway to step through and never think on again.

I will not let him. After dreaming that hallway every night, I know it far better than he ever can. I will learn its tricks and secrets. I will run its length forever, if I must, but he will not catch me and pin me down.

Casey — About last night. Look, you know I like girls. And I like you. I’m just not looking for anything super-serious right now. I thought you knew that. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea. I’m just sorry. Talk to me? Rani.

Gentlemen,

It is with a heavy heart that I tender my formal resignation from St. Everild’s University. I have had occasion to speak with each of you privately, and I am certain you understand this is in the best interests of all concerned.

I have given over twenty years of my life to this institution, but I cannot—

I cannot.

It is said time heals all wounds, but I have yet to find a thread strong enough to sew mine closed. The past two years since my wife’s disappearance have taught me hauntings are all too real. They exist between heart and gut, between skin and bone. No amount of prayer can banish them.

I believed the dismissal of Blaine Roderick would purge any lingering pain. But all it did was limit his access to me and slow the tide of unpleasant — and occasionally quite public — altercations he attempted to instigate.

As I’m sure you know, gentlemen, throughout this ordeal, I have had no care for my personal reputation. I care only for the reputation of St. Everild’s. Upon my resignation, I trust you will do your best to repair any damage I have done to the good name of this fine school.

As for myself, what could Blaine Roderick say of me that I have not thought of myself? He made me complicit. He was ever the shadow, the puppet master, steering my hand. I am not blameless, but his will always be the greater share of the blame.

I am not without heart. Nor am I so vain that I cannot sympathize with the notion of a younger woman, married to a man nearly twice her age seeking companionship amongst her peers. If Charlotte . . . I would not blame her. Whatever the truth of their relationships, whatever Blaine Roderick may have felt for Charlotte, I do believe this: He hated her by the end. He feared her. Yet he was ever the coward. He could not bear to do the deed himself, and so he drove me to it.

Gentlemen, you know me. You know I did not, could not, commit violence against my wife. I cherished her.

And yet, in the depths of my soul I know there might have been a chance for her to, somehow, return. If the painting still existed.

Charlotte’s hope for life, for return, is now in ashes. My hand did the deed, but Blaine Roderick bears the blame.

I am weary, gentlemen. If this letter seems improper, I am certain you will forgive me.

Yours, etc.,

I’m scared, Casey. I can’t remember everything that happened that night. I know we both got pretty fucked up. It was a mistake. I’m sorry.

I wanted to tell you . . . I don’t think I can stay here. I know I haven’t been around the past few days, but it isn’t enough. I can’t stay in that house with you. When the semester ends, I’m going to call my parents and ask them to take me home.

It’s not your fault. We were both . . .

We fooled around. I shouldn’t have let it happen, knowing how you feel, and I’m sorry.

But I don’t remember everything else that happened. I have bits of it, but there are pieces missing.

All that wine. Everything was so hot, like I had a fever. I remember the color flaking, and falling like ash around me. Then there were colors running down the bathtub drain. I was scrubbing my skin so hard it hurt, and you were pounding on the bathroom door.

There are bruises.

Fuck.

Please don’t finish the painting, Casey.

I know it’s of me. Even though it isn’t done, I can tell. It’s fucking with my head, and I’m scared. I’m sorry . . .

I came back to the house just to get my stuff. I looked at the painting again, and it’s still wet. I don’t remember putting on that dress. Where did you even get it? The way you painted the shadows in the folds of the fabric. They’re hungry. Like mouths that have never known kisses, only pain. All those smudges of blue-gray of around my throat. You painted me like I’d been strangled.

I don’t even understand some of the colors you used. They’re . . . I don’t know the names for them. But I can taste them at the back of my throat, slick and just starting to rot. I keep finding paint caked under my nails, like I’ve been scratching — rust, dirt, bone, a color like the texture of a shadow under an owl’s wing, like the sound of things crawling in the earth, like angles that don’t match and . . .

I don’t know what I did to you. I know. But I’m sorry, Casey. Just take it back, okay?

I can smell the smoke from when the city burned, the tide from when it drowned. It’s sand-grit when I close my eyes, rubbing every time I blink. The dress is in tatters, and he is ragged where his shadow is stripped raw from the wind. He is walking from the horizon. I don’t want to go. I can’t. I have to go.

Called to examine Charlotte Aimsbury today. Cause of condition uncertain.

(I have known Charlotte since she was a little girl, and I have never found her to be prone to fits of hysteria like so many of her sex. She has a good head on her shoulders. She is a most remarkable woman.)

Patient claims no memory of collapse. Can only surmise exhaustion the cause.

(I do not blame Charlotte. While I make a point of rising above such things, talk, when persistent enough, often cannot be avoided. Being the subject of so many wagging tongues would be enough to weary even the strongest spirit.

Not that I believe there’s any truth to even half of what is said. Having met Mr. Roderick, I cannot imagine Charlotte succumbing to his charms, few as they are. Roderick is brusque, rude, and highly distractible. I see little to draw Charlotte’s eye. Yet, I suppose it is no great wonder that many would gossip.

In my own admittedly biased opinion, Charlotte is a very moral and upstanding woman. I refuse to believe her the faithless type.)