Neil Gaiman - Trigger Warning - Short Fictions and Disturbances

‘ House? ’

‘No. It’s not a house.’

‘ Lair? ’

He was silent. Then, ‘I think that’s the word, yes. Lair. ’ He squeezed my hand. He stopped talking.

‘Right. So they take the people who don’t pay attention back to their lair. And what do they do then, your monsters? Do they suck all the blood out of you, like vampires?’

He snorted. ‘Vampires don’t suck all the blood out of you. They only drink a little bit. Just to keep them going, and, you know, flying around. Click-Clacks are much scarier than vampires.’

‘I’m not scared of vampires,’ I told him.

‘Me neither. I’m not scared of vampires either. Do you want to know what Click-Clacks do? They drink you,’ said the boy.

‘Like a Coke?’

‘Coke is very bad for you,’ said the boy. ‘If you put a tooth in Coke, in the morning, it will be dissolved into nothing. That’s how bad Coke is for you and why you must always clean your teeth, every night.’

I’d heard the Coke story as a boy, and had been told, as an adult, that it wasn’t true, but was certain that a lie which promoted dental hygiene was a good lie, and I let it pass.

‘Click-Clacks drink you,’ said the boy. ‘First they bite you, and then you go all ishy inside, and all your meat and all your brains and everything except your bones and your skin turns into a wet, milkshakey stuff and then the Click-Clack sucks it out through the holes where your eyes used to be.’

‘That’s disgusting,’ I told him. ‘Did you make it up?’

We’d reached the last flight of stairs, all the way into the big house.

‘No.’

‘I can’t believe you kids make up stuff like that.’

‘You didn’t ask me about the rattlebag,’ he said.

‘Right. What’s the rattlebag?’

‘Well,’ he said, sagely, soberly, a small voice from the darkness beside me, ‘once you’re just bones and skin, they hang you up on a hook, and you rattle in the wind.’

‘So what do these Click-Clacks look like?’ Even as I asked him, I wished I could take the question back, and leave it unasked. I thought: huge spidery creatures. Like the one in the shower this morning. I’m afraid of spiders.

I was relieved when the boy said, ‘They look like what you aren’t expecting. What you aren’t paying attention to.’

We were climbing wooden steps now. I held on to the railing on my left, held his hand with my right, as he walked beside me. It smelled like dust and old wood, that high in the house. The boy’s tread was certain, though, even though the moonlight was scarce.

‘Do you know what story you’re going to tell me, to put me to bed?’ he asked. ‘Like I said. It doesn’t actually have to be scary.’

‘Not really.’

‘Maybe you could tell me about this evening. Tell me what you did?’

‘That won’t make much of a story for you. My girlfriend just moved into a new place on the edge of town. She inherited it from an aunt or someone. It’s very big and very old. I’m going to spend my first night with her, tonight, so I’ve been waiting for an hour or so for her and her housemates to come back with the wine and an Indian takeaway.’

‘See?’ said the boy. There was that precocious amusement again; but all kids can be insufferable sometimes, when they think they know something you don’t. It’s probably good for them. ‘You know all that. But you don’t think. You just let your brain fill in the gaps.’

He pushed open the door to the attic room. It was perfectly dark, now, but the opening door disturbed the air, and I heard things rattle gently, like dry bones in thin bags, in the slight wind. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Like that.

I would have pulled away then, if I could; but small, firm fingers pulled me forward, unrelentingly, into the dark.

An Invocation of Incuriosity

There are flea markets all across Florida, and this was not the worst of them. It had once been an aircraft hangar, but the local airport had closed over twenty years before. There were a hundred traders there behind their metal tables, most of them selling counterfeit merchandise: sunglasses or watches or bags or belts. There was an African family selling carved wooden animals and behind them a loud, blowsy woman named (I cannot forget the name) Charity Parrot sold coverless paperback books, and old pulp magazines, the paper browned and crumbling, and beside her, in the corner, a Mexican woman whose name I never knew sold film posters and curling film stills.

I bought books from Charity Parrot, sometimes.

Soon enough the woman with the film posters went away and was replaced by a small man in sunglasses, his grey tablecloth spread over the metal table and covered with small carvings. I stopped and examined them – a peculiar set of creatures, made of grey bone and stone and dark wood – and then I examined him. I wondered if he had been in a ghastly accident, the kind it takes plastic surgery to repair: his face was wrong, the way it sloped, the shape of it. His skin was too pale. His too-black hair looked like it had to be a wig, made, perhaps, of dog fur. His glasses were so dark as to hide his eyes completely. He did not look in any way out of place in a Florida flea market: the tables were all manned by strange people, and strange people shopped there.

I bought nothing from him.

The next time I was there Charity Parrot had, in her turn, moved on, her place taken by an Indian family who sold hookahs and smoking paraphernalia, but the little man in the dark glasses was still in his corner at the back of the flea market, with his grey cloth. On it were more carvings of creatures.

‘I do not recognise any of these animals,’ I told him.

‘No.’

‘Do you make them yourself?’

He shook his head. You cannot ask anyone in a flea market where they get their stuff from. There are few things that are taboo in a flea market, but that is: sources are inviolate.

‘Do you sell a lot?’

‘Enough to feed myself,’ he said. ‘Keep a roof over my head.’ Then, ‘They are worth more than I ask for them.’

I picked up something that reminded me a little of what a deer might look like if deer were carnivorous, and said, ‘What is this?’

He glanced down. ‘I think it is a primitive thawn. It’s hard to tell.’ And then, ‘It was my father’s.’

There was a chiming noise then, to signal that soon enough the flea market would close.

‘Would you like food?’ I asked.

He looked at me, warily.

‘My treat,’ I said. ‘No obligations. There’s a Denny’s over the road. Or there’s the bar.’

He thought for a moment. ‘Denny’s will be fine,’ he said. ‘I will meet you over there.’

I waited at Denny’s. After half an hour I no longer expected him to come, but he surprised me and he arrived fifty minutes after I got there, carrying a brown leather bag tied to his wrist with a long piece of twine. I imagined it had to contain money, for it hung as if empty, and it could not have held his stock. Soon enough he was eating his way through a plate piled with pancakes, and, eventually, over coffee, he began to talk.

***

The sun began to go out a little after midday. A flicker, first, and then a rapid darkening that began on one side of the sun and then crept across its crimson face until the sun went black, like a coal knocked from a fire, and night returned to the world.

Balthasar the Tardy hurried down from the hill, leaving his nets in the trees, uninspected and unemptied. He uttered no words, conserving his breath, moving as fast as befitted his remarkable bulk, until he reached the bottom of the hill and the front door of his one-room cottage.

‘Oaf! It is time!’ he called. Then he knelt and lit a fish-oil lamp, which sputtered and stank and burned with a fitful orange flame.