Trolley No. 1852 (14 page)

“I can’t!” she sobbed.

“Go!” I yelled back.

A macabre fugue-state seemed to overwhelm
the chamber, but I knew it could only genuinely be amid my mind. In
what appeared to be retarded motion, Miss Aheb came down off her
chair, whereupon she took Selina by the shoulders and kissed her
once. Then—

She removed my sister’s pendant.

With instantaneousness,
the revolting, pond-scum skin that so molested Selina’s physical
beauty…
reversed!
In only seconds her face beamed in a creamy and quite normal
hue.

Miss Aheb turned Selina about and gently
nudged her toward the door.

“Goodbye, my beloved
sister,” I bid, and suddenly what occurred to me was something more
than simple relief but the resplendent positivity that so
enraptured my friend Mr. Erwin. “Every day is a celebration. Never
forget that.
Revel
in that celebration, Selina, while I, here in my own way,
shall share in your joy…”

She walked shakily to the ornate door,
opened it, but halted, to turn her tear-streaked face to me a final
time.

I smiled as I hadn’t in decades. “Go.”

And she was gone.

Miss Aheb traipsed slowly
about the grand chamber, as if mulling penetrative thoughts. “You
seem a sincere man, Mr. Phillips, in a world where men are anything
but. Your thoughts remain surprisingly clear, and I’m impressed by
that. But should you ever harbour hope of escape, don’t bother.
Perhaps you’ll one day entertain the notion that your sister will
report the existence of the 1852 Club to the authorities, and
they’ll storm through the door and wrest back your freedom. But
what you must know is that no one ever finds the club save for
those I
allow
to
find it.”

“I’m not surprised by the intricacies of
your powers, madam; rest assured, I shall never challenge them.
After all… A deal’s a deal.”

She turned, then, to slowly approach me.

She snapped her fingers,
and in moments, I stood in the midst of the brothel’s ladies of
pleasure, all of whom remained naked and raving in their slatternly
appeal. One by one they undressed me of all my garb, then commenced
to
re
-dress
me…

… in the trousers, tunic, boots, and
regulation cap of a trolley-car conductor.

That bizarre fugue,
impossible as it was, rose to a steady, lamenting dirge in my head,
and it was then that Miss Aheb placed the pendant about
my
neck.

“Consider yourself
blessed,” her lithe accent hissed. “You are the
new
conductor for the
trolley.”

“So be it,” I croaked.

It was the delightful and very spirited tart
named Ammi who, with a lascivious grin, held the mirror before my
face.

The silver veins shined back…

Into the features of my nondescript visage
the brand of the Pyramidiles had now been imbued: that nauseating
swirl of swamp-foam green with corpse-white.

“From here on, you exist to serve the
Pyramidiles,” Miss Aheb’s hellish voice echoed so very softly, and
then over my face she placed the parchment mask…

“Go now, Conductor Phillips. The trolley is
ready to depart.”

3.

Hence, the sum of all my
destiny’s parts. I conduct the trolley now, in my ghastly mask of
death, during the blackest and most silent hours of eventime. A new
motorman was easily procured, identical in function—and in
atrociousness—to the first. When not transporting appropriately
virile guests to and from the club, or making the periodic
“ingressions” to that howling terrorscape upon which the execrable
Pyramidiles live to suck up like wine the horrors of countless
worlds, I serve these abyssal mountains of flesh and their
blasphemous, aeons-old acolyte, Isimah el-Aheb. I serve the latter
quite carnally and in ways too lewd to iterate; and I serve the
former quite traitorously via the inter-worldly deliveries of sperm
so abundantly pilfered from the club’s unsuspecting suitors. Much
of that consignment, to my eternal shame, is my own, and when on
one bleak day in the future two billion thoggs are unleashed upon
my planet, I shudder to think how
many
of them will have been sired by
me…

And as for the question of how long the
earth shall last, I cannot estimate. Another day, perhaps, or
another thousand years. Whichever the case may be, my new grotesque
immortality will ensure that I am here to witness it all. As for my
beloved sister, I never saw her again, and I can only, however
thinly, pray to Erwin’s God that she is safe, unexploited, and,
above all, alive.

And in times when I am in farthest proximity
from my wretched mastress (and hence farthest from her prying grey
matter) I dare to entertain the hope that I may eventually
condition my mind to veil its thoughts soundly enough from her
psychically-clutching powers and then devise some manner by which I
may destroy her and close forever this horrid ingressional rive.
But until that day may dawn…

My name is Morgan Phillips, and I am the
conductor of Trolley No. 1852.

THE END

— | — | —

When the sudden and rather annoying series
of raps sounded from the downstairs foyer, Howard frowned up from
his current work-in-progress which, upon conclusion, he believed he
would entitle “The Shadow Out of Time.” But, oh, how he deplored
interruptions! What’s more, he hoped the intrusion didn’t disturb
his aunt who was still feebly recuperating from a broken hip.

“Howard!” came her shrill voice. “There’s
someone at the—”

In the name of He Who Is
Not To Be Named!
“My perfectly serviceable
auditory functions have left me so apprised, Auntie,” he raised his
voice in response. “We can at least rest assured that it’s
not
the landlord, since
I’ve paid the next six months’ rent.”

“What a fine, gifted boy you are,
Howard…”

I’m forty-four and she
still calls me a boy…
He shot down the
stairs, hoping to circumvent more rapping, but upon opening the
door, he was taken startlingly aback by the physical presence of
the visitor. Poised opposite within the doorway was a significantly
handsome woman with shining, shoulder-length tresses of hair the
colour of sunlight, and penetrating noon-blue eyes. Even in the
long, autumn-leaf overcoat, her sonsy bosom and copious curvations
were so evident, the writer’s power of speech stalled
outright.

“Do I have the pleasure of standing before
the renowned H.P. Lovecraft?” she asked in a silken wisp of a
voice.

“I… er, uh…” Not one to
ordinarily be struck dumb by the vision of a notably attractive
woman, the writer could only gulp ludicrously in repeated attempts
to make an affirmative response. The woman’s cleavage
blared
at him from the V
beneath her smart collar.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. Perhaps I have the
wrong address…”

“I’m Howard Lovecraft, yes,” he finally
erupted, “but-but-but, I’d hardly refer to myself as renowned.”

“You’re too humble, sir!”
she exclaimed, and then a smile that could’ve been painted by
Rubens illuminated her flawlessly angled face. “Do pardon the
interruption, Mr. Lovecraft. I’m Francine Wilcox, the publisher
of
Erotesque.
”

Howard nearly fell into a
faint; and could do little more than stammer syllabic fragments.
“I—but. The directory said. Um.
Franklin
Wilcox. I could never.
Imag—”

A casual laugh as she tossed her head,
piloting luscious scents off her shining hair. “Oh, no, sir, that’s
my brother. I only share the flat with him.” She hunched her
shoulders, compressing the already-awesome mammarian cleft. “It’s
quite chilly out, Mr. Lovecraft. If I could just impose on a
smidgen more of your good nature?”

Howard felt as though he’d
somehow just kicked
himself
in the back of the head. “Oh,
do
forgive me, Miss Wilcox,” and
with a shaking hand brought her into the foyer.

She turned to him as he closed the door.
“I’m sure you’re quite busy with your writing, so I won’t
tarry…”

“Oh, tarry, please, tarry all you like,” his
words jerked. “I’m actually taking a breather from my current bit
of work.”

Did those radiant blue
eyes steal a glimpse to his groin?
Don’t
be outlandish!
he thought.

“At any rate, your
wonderful submission, ‘Trolley No. 1852’ brought such accolades
from myself and my entire editorial staff that I simply
had
to visit you in
person in order to notify you of its immediate
acceptance.”

Howard felt petrified in
jubilation, to the extent that his heart skipped a few beats. An
acceptance meant…
Another cheque!
“Why, that’s—that’s—that’s—”

Did the subtle accentuation of her grin
indicate some cryptic signal of the lascivious? “Oh, yes, sir! Your
story caused quite a row!” Like a card player’s sleight of hand,
she at once offered a bank cheque. “So without further delay, I’d
like to give you this, with my greatest thanks.”

Howard’s heart skipped a
few
more
beats
when his eyes found the words
Pay to the
order of H.P. Lovecraft the sum of $500.
So not only had the second cheque arrived, it had been, of
all things,
hand-delivered!

“I—I—I,” he mumbled.

“The story will appear in next month’s
issue, and, well…” She paused as if uncomfortable. “I couldn’t
impose by asking…”

Howard finally rid himself of the proverbial
frogs that had found their way to his throat. “Ask, um, what?”

“We know that authors in
such popular demand as yourself have so little time for alternate
demonstrations of their talent, as I’m sure you’re far too busy
with your
important
work to ever entertain the prospect of, say, writing for us
on a regular basis—”

Howard nearly fell back against the
wall.

“Say, four times a year? And for no less
payment, naturally.”

The frogs returned in
multiplicity
,
and
after coming close to choking on them, he croaked, “I
accept…”

She looked beyond belief,
batting her long-lashed eyes. “Thank you very much,
sir,” and then she opened her hand over her
heart. “It’s been a true honour meeting you.”

Howard looked at her, agog. “You’re-you’re
not leaving already?”

“Oh, but I couldn’t impose further. I know
you’re terribly busy—”

“I’m
not
busy!” he came very close to
shouting.
Think, you lackwit!
Think!
“Um, well… oh! Please adjourn with
me to my… writing chamber. I have coffee!”

Francine seemed to fully
blush, and she replied in a hot gush, “I was
so
hoping you’d ask,
sir.”

Only when Howard had
climbed half the flight’s steps was he stricken by a propulsive
sense of dread.
My room…
it’s
—
it’s…
It stood in such unkemptness and disrepair that
he didn’t
dare
let her see it. There were empty bean cans all about, and
myriad ginger snap crumbs, not to mention mouse droppings
galore.

He cleared his throat. “But I’m afraid we’ll
have to take our coffee in the hall—”

“
What?
”

“You see, I wasn’t expecting a guest
and-and-and…”

“Oh, Mr. Lovecraft,
please! All great artists are messy. They’re too busy crafting
their great art to piddle valuable time with mundane chores such as
housekeeping. It’s said that Michelangelo never once cleaned his
floor, and in fact only cleaned
himself
a few times per year. Samuel
Coleridge wrote ‘Rime’ in what he described as his ‘happy
hovel.’”

Howard turned, encouraged. “You don’t say?
Coleridge?”

The comely face nodded behind him. “Really,
sir, don’t be self-conscious over your room’s appearance. In all
honesty, I’d be disappointed to find it tidy. However, clean or
dirty, I’d be honoured to stand in the very room where the great
H.P. Lovecraft has written so many ground-breaking tales.”

“Well… since you put
it
that
way.”

He brought her to the landing; whereupon,
his aunt’s voice sailed from the next room. “Howard! Who’s that
you’re talking to?”

For the love of
Pegana!
Howard let his face stiffen to
sternness. “Auntie,
please!
I’m in the midst of a consultation of import with
a very noteworthy editor from New York.”

“How wonderful, Howard…”

Next, he took a deep
breath, thought,
My room probably smells
more foul than the cellar of the Shunned House,
and opened his door. “Rrrrr-right this way, Miss
Wilcox.”

“Oh, please. Call me Francine…”

He stepped aside and let her pass.

Instead of gagging, or
rolling her eyes, her long shapely legs took her in haste to his
writing-table. She smoothed her hands, as if in adoration, over the
cluttered desktop, let her fingers trace across the keys of his
decades-old typing-machine, then picked up his fountain pen and
held it as if it were an icon. “This is so exciting,” she whispered
and even appeared to have a tear in her eye. “To touch the same
desk upon which so many masterpieces of horror have been composed…
and to have in my own hands… the
same
pen.
”