Nightingale Songs (21 page)

Ideas are mercurial. Sometimes they are at the center of a maze, and you must navigate twists and turns and dead ends until you find the right way to them. Sometimes, they appear like magic fruit on a tree, but when you pluck them you find they do not taste as sweet as you thought. The worst kind of idea is the one that appears from out of nowhere and promises to be grand, but no matter how many times you try to make something of it the thing never gels. By contrast, the best ideas are those you aren't even aware you've had. You just sit down and write a sentence, which begets another, and then another, until you have written pages upon pages and you're signing your name to a cover letter and mailing it off to some major publication. When you've followed through with an idea like that, you feel the need to celebrate, and me? I uncorked a bottle of wine when I was done and enjoyed a relaxing evening at the back of the house where the garden grew tall and I could hear the insects buzzing.

The novella, "Velvet Death,” was the first piece of work I'd been able to finish since "The Howling Faces" all those years ago, and though it did not compare in length I think I may have experienced a sense of
joie de vivre
that I hadn't when the novel was done, when there was still an uncertain future before me. Older, wiser, with a beard to stroke, I was better able to appreciate the act of creation, and better still I discovered the delirious high had not diminished. "Velvet Death" sold to a British anthology and then went on to win the World Fantasy Award the next year, but even before that honor the thrill of the work inspired me to keep going, and over the next few months I did not leave my house, I did not travel -- I did little beyond write when I was waking and read while on my way to sleep. It was the most prolific period of my life, that year, and in many ways I think all that has happened since has its roots in that span of time. It touches everything I do.

At the time of the next WeirdCon, I had only just received my award nomination, but nevertheless I was amazed to find the book in which my story had appeared had been read and my contribution in particular had drawn commentary. I wouldn't go so far as to say I was mobbed on arrival -- compared to the treatment I had seen Gahan McKaye receive the year before I was virtually ignored -- but it was probably first time since the publication of "The Howling Faces" that the number of people who were interested in talking to me was on the increase. During one panel I was referred to as "the ultimate author's author" -- which I
assume
was meant as a compliment. (I took it as such, at any rate.) I have to admit, the moment I enjoyed most was being approached by the young and by-then-familiar dark-haired woman, no longer much of a girl, and congratulated on my nomination.

"That's very kind of you," I said.

"It was touching to see you'd dedicated the story to Gahan McKaye."

I suppose I ought to explain what happened to Gahan McKaye after he left me at WeirdCon. I've been trying to avoid it because -- well, because I don't fully understand it. But the story needs to be told and since I've finished my latest novel earlier than I expected, and since I have this Spanish villa rented for at least another week, I suspect now is the time to do it before age or infirmity preclude me from doing so. And the way things are headed, I fear both will arrive rather earlier than I'd like.

After Gahan left WeirdCon things turned sour for him. At this point I was deep in my own writing, and experiencing a sensation unlike any I'd had before. It was as though all fiction was drawn from some glorious central source, some well of creativity, and through my writing I had managed to tap a vein. Through this connection, I could (for moments) see that each aspect of writing -- the words on the page, their publication, their being read -- was a facet of the whole, and that sight allowed me to draw even further power from it. Without knowing
how
, I knew not only that Gahan's second novel had been released, but also how it was received.

The reviews were terrible. Those critics that called it "trash" were perhaps the kindest. I suspect any book called "Killer Bones" must fight an uphill battle, but when the plot of said book revolves around giant mutant animals that read, intentionally or not, as sexual metaphors... well, that sort of book has a target on it from the beginning. Good writing can often save such a project -- or if not
save
it then at least mitigate the damage -- but "Killer Bones" was not so graced. I eventually bought the book out of a sense of nostalgic obligation and made a valiant effort to read it, but the sheer terribleness of the prose made it impossible to continue. Even the plot, what there was of one, was hackneyed and weak. Where, I wondered, had the Gahan I'd known gone? The Gahan who had once written with such heart-breaking eloquence that I was sure his work would outlast us all? In his place was an author incapable of penning anything redeeming. The prose lay dead on the page, drained of any life. Where the old Gahan McKaye would have written with a flourish, with a style that begged for attention, what replaced him was simply a shell. Needless to say, I was disappointed, and I think his fans felt the same way. At least, a good number of them came to tell me so in person later, conspiratorially, after what had happened to him, as though I wasn't already aware of the book's failings. The full story of his death remains unclear, but the police surmised at the time that Gahan, despondent over the book's reception, and most likely in a state of confusion exacerbated by an ongoing and undiagnosed illness, had decided to slit his own throat. He was found dead in his home long after he'd bled out.

Needless to say, I was shocked when I heard. No one seemed to know for certain what was truth and what was simply the conjecture of writers devoted to sublimating their fears in impossible fiction. The death hadn't been widely reported in the papers, which I've always thought was a fair indicator that there was nothing scandalous about it, though there are some who argue quite the opposite. I heard from those few mutual friends that still had some sort of contact with him near the end that the police reports described a great number of lacerations all over his body, the oldest and greatest number being concentrated beneath his cravat. If it were true, the question was what had caused them. For a while the thought was he'd died
in flagrante delicto
and his family had used the last of his money to cover it up. But if you were to believe that, wouldn't you also have to believe the rest of the story? That the wounds, upon inspection, were tears rather than cuts? There was a lot of information floating around and no one who could speak with any authority on the subject. Even the specter of AIDS was unearthed -- it always is when an artist dies in such poor physical condition -- but most I knew shrugged it off without merit. "McKaye wasn't the kind to hide that sort of thing," they said.

Well, I think it was obvious he was hiding
something
.

The WeirdCon conference committee each year organized a large "signing session" on the third day for all the panelists in the Simcoe room. Usually, the biggest-name authors and those young ones with "buzz" about them were asked to attend. The rest of us loitered in the bar or restaurant, passing time until the evening programming commenced. I'd done a few signings in my day, but I did not start visiting WeirdCon until long after those days were behind me. Thus, you can imagine my surprise to be invited to take a seat that year behind the table. I happily accepted as somehow the intervening years had convinced me that perhaps I would enjoy it more than I had remembered. Alas, as with all things in life, that was not the case, and after an hour of signing the occasional copy from my meager stack of books and making even-less-occasional small talk, I found myself instead studying the faces of the crowd, marveling at the mix. There were all types at an ostensibly "Horror" convention, from professors to laymen, from those who loved the literature of the nineteenth century to those who loved the
rumble
tumble
of modern films, and if there was one thing they all had in common -- and shared with the likes of us behind the tables -- it was that they all loved the genre of Horror and its inherent potential. That pleased me to no end to see, and I realized that though I hadn't always seen the value in each piece of Horror fiction I'd read, when there was passion there I never came away feeling cheated.

While I pondered those things my eyes causally drifted to the table across from me, about ten feet away, that had been swamped with so many bodies I could not see who sat behind it. It was only by chance that I looked over at the right moment, and saw through a fleeting gap a sight that chilled my bones. It was
him
. He was small and misshapen, his hair gone and flesh turned a pasty white, but he sat there signing books with his pudgy left hand -- a hand shaped like a claw -- and handing them back wordlessly to the young people around him. From the crowd emerged the dark-haired girl and when my waving caught her eye I beckoned her over.

"Did you just buy a book from Mr. Kneale?"

She glanced back.

"Of course."

"Do you mind?" I asked, pointing at the volume in her hand. "I'd just like to see what all the fuss is about."

She seemed hesitant, but eventually handed it over. I read portions of the first page, and then flipped to a few random paragraphs throughout. The prose read familiar, and it took me a moment to understand why. It read much like Gahan McKaye's work once had, a number of years before, back in his "arty" phase (as he might have called it). It wasn't the
same
, of course, but similar enough to McKaye's work that what I saw bore more than a strong influence. I stood up, the book still in my hand, and looked across the distance at the little man behind the opposite table. His misshapen head did not move, but his little hands did with a flourish I shall never forget, even when all other memories have left me. So intently was I staring that I don’t recall the young woman pulling her book from my no-doubt clenched fingers and leaving. I was mesmerized by the strange contours of Mr. Kneale's head and the flat, doe-like look on his face. Or perhaps it was by those dull black eyes that had turned toward Martin Stemmel in the chair beside him. I saw Mr. Kneale look him up and down, then a tiny grey tongue poked out and rested in the cleft of his bifurcated lip.

In hindsight, perhaps it's
that
image that will never leave me. God, how I desperately wish that it would.

time Natalie recovered, solidly blocking all further sound from inside. She tried the handle but it would not budge, nor was there any place at the side of the building she could gain re-entry -- even the topiary was hidden behind an impenetrable wall of vegetation. She had no choice but to leave. It then took almost an hour of stumbling through the maze of streets to find a cab that was willing to stop for someone who walked through the darkness alone.

"Jenn? Are you awake, Jenn?"

She wasn't, which meant it was once more Doyle's turn to pick up his baby angel, his little crying cherub. He left his wife sleeping in their bed and rose to navigate the dark hallway toward the nursery. Unpacked boxes cluttered his journey and he stubbed his toe on one, his dream-addled brain still at their old apartment and not in their new house. The pain was startling, and he stifled the scream that floated up to his mouth for fear he'd further frighten little Angella. He had to be strong for her. Once the blinding stars cleared from his sight, he tentatively put his weight back on his foot and continued with a shuffling limp to the baby's room.

Jenn and he had decided to make the master bedroom the nursery; it was the one room in the house with an east-facing window, and Jenn had insisted that there be morning light for Angella. "I want my baby to see the sun first thing every day," she said as Doyle held her in their old apartment, her belly so swollen with child he worried for weeks that she might go into labor at any moment. As it was, their baby waited until the last of the boxes was packed and the movers on their way before deciding it was time to join her parents in the outside world. Between labor pains the soon-to-be parents arranged for Jenn's father to meet the movers on the other end, so by the time Angella was ushered forth into the world, Jenn and Doyle had a house for their new child. No, not a house, Doyle thought. A
home
.

From the door of the nursery, Angella's cry sounded more like a shriek of panic and it proved somewhat unnerving, though Doyle imagined a screaming voice in the dead of night would have that effect on anyone. The moon was at its lowest point in the sky, and it reflected no light of any kind into the room. There was nothing to guide Doyle but the sound of his screaming child. Jenn had warned against turning on the overhead lamp, her voice trembling slightly beneath her dark eyes, as she explained in rush breaths the damage it might do. Instead, he blindly navigated across the room to the door opposite the entrance, the door that led to the
en-suite
master washroom. He could turn on the light there and use the door to keep all but the barest amount of illumination from the room. Locating the doorknob in the pitch darkness proved a challenge, and as he turned it he opened the door only enough to slip his arm through. His hand danced along the wall as he fumbled for the lamp switch while Angella continued to tirelessly wail. Doyle wondered how long it would take before Jenn awoke and came to see what was wrong, and the thought only added to his urgency. He continued reaching for the switch, his outstretched arm growing colder, and he recoiled as his fingers brushed along something -- something that wasn't there when he reached back for it, something that felt nothing like the lamp switch that his fingers finally discovered.

As though by magic, Angella's cries subsided. Nonetheless, he used the sliver of light to check upon her. Angella was already fast asleep on her side, a soft toy ring gripped in her tiny hand. Doyle could not stop smiling at the sight of her, even in his swollen-eyed exhaustion. She was perfect, his perfect little Angella, and the mere sight of her made his heart feel as though it might burst. He felt something else too, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, something no doubt caused by the mixture of eerie quiet and his own exhaustion. Then it was gone and whatever it was he felt it no longer.

The next morning it was Jenn, not Doyle, who looked as though she'd been up all night. Doyle did not comment on it, however. He'd been warned by Doctor Mielke that she might be exhausted for some time -- at least until she became accustomed to her child's sleep patterns. Nonetheless, it was taking longer than he'd expected, and he did not want to prolong her troubles by mentioning what she could not control. No doubt adding to her discomfort was all the work left undone in the new house. Boxes sat in corners of rooms, waiting to be unpacked, walls were still only half painted, and had it been before the birth of their child, Jenn would have made sure Doyle was acutely aware of it all. She had become uncharacteristically silent of most matters since, though. Perhaps motherhood had calmed her.

"I don't think I've ever heard anything as
loud
as Angella's crying last night," Doyle said, laughing over his coffee as he cradled his daughter in his arms. She made a warm gurgling sound, and a thin line of drool slipped down her chin. "I think she broke the monitor. My ears are still ringing."

Jenn gave him a tired look from the sink as she washed the dishes, and he quickly changed the subject. "How do you like it here so far? The neighborhood should be good for Angella when she gets older. I've already seen a few strollers on the street. Have you met any of the other moms in the area?"

"I haven't gone out much," she said, the words from her disused throat sounding forced. "It's just been me and Angella every day. All day."

"Maybe I can try and come home earlier today, try and give you a bit of a break. I know it can't be easy."

"It's just that--" She had trouble getting the words out. For a prolonged moment, all she did was stare at her wet hands, soaked to her elbows. "Sometimes I go in that room and I get this strange
feeling
..." She trailed off but Doyle knew what she meant. He'd felt it too. It was difficult to describe; it was as though someone had been in the room just before he entered it. Which was ridiculous, of course. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling. He looked down into Angella's sleepy face and drew strength.

"It's just your imagination, Jenn. Everything is fine."

She said she believed him, though the dark bags under her eyes said something else entirely.

The house had been a find. The two of them had always planned on moving out of the apartment one day, but it wasn't until Doctor Mielke gave them the news that they began to earnestly look. The pregnancy had been a surprise -- Jenn's medication hiding the truth until the beginning of the second trimester -- so when the tests came back they found themselves racing to find a home before the baby was due. "There's no way my baby's going to live in an apartment," she said. "Not even for one day." Doyle was certain their elderly neighbors shared the sentiment. The apartment was already too small for the two of them. Three would make things impossible.

They looked every day they could spare and some they couldn't, and while Jenn's size increased rapidly they were no closer to finding a home. Nothing was available -- at least, not within the range of a young couple still struggling to reach middle-class. Everything they saw was either too expensive or uninhabitable for one reason or another, and as the due date approached they began to worry they might never find a home for their family. Even Doyle, usually the calmer of the two, felt a sense of nervousness stalking him.

It was three weeks before Jenn was due that the real estate agent called with another listing. His wife apartment-bound, incapacitated with the weight of their unborn child, it was up to Doyle to go on without her. He brought his camera despite her dejected insistence that it was all for naught, that there would be nothing worth capturing. Their agent was in agreement. "Don't get your hopes up," she warned. "The neighborhood is pricey, and the houses there usually go for at least a third more. When an owner is this anxious to sell... well, I have my doubts."

"But it never hurts to check, right?"

It was clear from Jenn's smile that she was humoring him, and her opinion didn't change until he returned with photographs. They put an offer in right away and a scant two days later they found they had bought themselves a house.

If there was a reason for the previous owners' anxiousness to sell, Doyle couldn't find it. Nothing at all was amiss, other than it was far nicer a house than he'd ever expected to own. Everything fell into place so easily that Jenn joked the house was destined to be theirs. Angella obviously agreed, as she couldn't wait to get there. When Doyle and Jenn returned from the hospital to the two-storey brick, Angella was squealing incessantly, and Doyle wished the moment would last forever -- standing there in the warm sunlight with Jenn and Angella, the lawn of their new home decorated with a dozen pink balloons floating lazily in anticipation of their arrival. He wondered if his life would ever again be so perfect.

It was clear early on that Jenn's tolerance to crying was lower than Doyle's, so he took great pains to run interference when Angella began to call out in the middle of the night. Sometimes, their daughter made so much noise -- and for such an extended time -- Doyle joked Jenn must have had twins that no one had told him about. How else could the endless squealing and frequent diaper changes be explained? Jenn humorlessly informed him there had been only the one child, and she said it with relief, as though caring for a second would be the most terrible thing she could imagine. Doyle, secretly, imagined there could be nothing better than two angels in his midst.

Ostensibly, they took turns with the nights, but reality was not so equally divided. Doyle was able to sleep without issue when necessary, but his wife was restless and far from eager to stay in place. For the first week Doyle would wake with a start to find he was alone in bed, Jenn gone. He'd get up to check on Angella and find the baby asleep but his wife sitting on the couch in a daze, watching late-night infomercials with the volume turned down. She wouldn't look at him -- it was as though he were a ghost floating through the night -- and when he tried to speak with her it was clear from her slurred speech she wasn't truly awake. Instead, she was between states, and he thought it best to leave her alone and let her return to bed in her own time, something she always managed to do. Even that didn't last long, however. Eventually, she'd be gone from the couch, and as he stood in the hallway he could hear her in the dark house, the soft padding of her bare feet on the floorboards, the quiet sounds of her sniffling. He tried his best in his half-slumber to pinpoint where in the house she was but it proved impossible. The darkness often lied. Sometimes, her footsteps would echo, and she'd appear to be in two places at once, making it impossible to find her. He eventually gave up, and each morning she'd be back beside him, blankets pulled up over her head as she slept.

It was almost the end of the first month when he heard the horrified scream through the crackling monitor. It woke him with an icy start, and he leapt to his feet automatically and staggered down the hallway before he was conscious of what was happening. Yet, when he entered the nursery everything was quiet and undisturbed, Angella asleep peacefully in her crib. He couldn't shake the irrational fear that there was someone else there in the darkness though -- someone hiding even though the crib was the only furniture in the room. Someone hiding in plain sight. "Jenn?" Doyle whispered. "Are you here?" There was no response, no noise but the sound of his angelic daughter breathing slowly. Nevertheless, an overwhelming sense of dread came over him. He looked around frantically but nothing was amiss -- nothing wrong save that it didn't
feel
as though nothing were wrong. There was a low hum, a droning noise that dug deep into his body, into his soul, but it was a noise he could not actually hear. He only felt it; felt it growing colder, stronger, and as it did the empty nursery seemed to enlarge around him, its walls creeping outward while his vision focused tighter on Angella's crib. Every detail hidden by shadow revealed itself: the tiny nails that held the wood together; the nicks in the carved newels; every wrinkle in her small blanket. Angella moved her arms and the rustling was too loud -- the crib creaking like a tree groaning beneath a terrible weight, close to breaking. There was the sound of flesh on wood, Jenn's footsteps so slow, so sure, that they could not keep time with the increasingly loud sound of Doyle's fluttering heartbeat. All the while the droning noise that Doyle could not hear only became louder, and he put his hands over his ears but it did nothing to mute it. The sound was so intense -- he had become so cold, the room smelled so stale -- that his eyes swam and knees weakened. The lights were flickering, but he wasn't sure if faulty wiring or the stars in his eyes caused it. He tried to call out for help and felt prickling in his bone-dry throat. He was about to pass out and as his vision dimmed he grabbed the rail of the crib for support. Suddenly, the sensation was gone. Like a shadow passing over him, it vanished, and with it the bottomless dread faded like so much empty smoke. All that was left was Angella asleep in her crib, a smile on her newborn face, oblivious to all that had transpired. He wiped his mouth, rattled by his hallucination, and when he returned to the bedroom, Jenn sat up in bed as though she'd been sleeping there the entire time, and when Doyle thought about it, he couldn't be sure she hadn't.

"Are you all right?" she said with drowsy irritability.

"I'm fine," he whispered. "I'm probably more tired than I thought. I think I was sleepwalking." He paused and looked at her to see if there was any reaction, any recognition. "I heard you walking in the hallway and it set me off into a dream."

"What do you mean?" she mumbled. "I've been here all night."