{ pathetic.org }
 

Masquerade (Nights 1 & 2)

by Graeme Fielden

DAY 1

If you are following my chronicles then perhaps you will notice that my hand is quite shaky and my writing has taken a character like an old man’s many times my age. Even now my nerves feel jaded from the events of this week; and as I write I feel that my constitution is stretched beyond all reason and it is all that I can do to keep myself together to record these events.
Were it not me who bore witness to these happenings then I would not believe them instead I would construe them the rambling’s of a deranged mind or a work of pure fiction. For this reason, at the outset, I will swear to you on the strength of my own eternal soul that the words that you shall read are a true and just account of the happenings of this week. I swear that I am not effected by any drink or hallucinogen; nor can my sanity be called to question as will be certified by any medical practitioner that you may seek to nominate.
To begin I assumed it as a dream. I was seated at my desk, working to the light of a gas lamp that flickered, throwing long shadows about the room. The clock within the hallway rang twelve then continued the slow echoed ticking that gives such solace as I work late into the night. The housekeeper, Mrs. Jenkins, left a pot of tea upon the mantle. It remained untouched and cold. I was so enamoured by my work that I could not afford any type of distraction.
I considered a critical passage of my writing then lay my head upon the desktop - placing my quill to the side, folding my tired eyes into my arms… I rolled the plot through my head, affirming its course before setting it to the page. It was then, whilst in deepest thought that it occurred to me that I was not alone.
There is a feeling when uninvited eyes invade personal space. Like breath upon the neck or an insect's touch to naked skin, it causes the skin to crawl and hair follicles to freeze…
I rested my head within my hands. Feeling my heartbeat rise progressively and small beads of sweat accumulate as I spied about the room. The curtain billowed gently - unnaturally - (I knew the window to be double-glazed and double locked). I lunged forward, seizing it to reveal my reflection standing dumbly in the glass.
A cloud of smoke appeared. It took shape, condensing like a tropic storm. A face transpired. First vague and undefined, its definition grew with each passing breath. I closed my eyes, shaking my head in disbelief whilst fanning fresh air toward me. Next, I drew a breath and slowly opened my eyes… First eyes appeared and then a nose; a mouth smiling blankly like a Cheshire cat. The eyes were red and grizzled, they danced unnaturally, stealing manic glances about the room. My scream was silent and internal - staring in morbid fascination at the spectre until its eyes rolled backward, closing like a keeper to Hades gate.
I buried my eyes into my palms seeking release from this nightmare; wheezing then collapsing to the desk where I lay silent until the clock rang once.
…"Gong!"…
…it echoed about the room…
The face hung suspended like a reflection. Staring blindly. It’s billowed cheeks expanded with each slaughtered breath. The skin decayed like rancid fruit before me - begatting a smell so foul that it forced me to wretch. Frenzy overtook me and I formed a fist - striking like an angered snake… The face fell lightly like to the desk. I stared at it and it returned my stare from empty sockets where the manic eyes had rested. Its nostrils dull and still. Its cheeks now tamed to the servitude of a mask - inanimate and dumb. I considered it gently, cradling it within my hands like a surgeon.
It was a mask of Venetian styling although contorted like a Leonardo sketch. Its face a disfigured celebration of the human visage with a twisted smile supporting a bulbous lower lip and scattered teeth that revealed themselves at severe angles. I held the mask within my hand, examining it slowly… turning it over and over… Was this the spectre of my dream? … From where did it appear? … Was it all the fiction of a dream?…a nightmare? Such questions ran maniacally about my head… I held the mask to my face…And that is all that I remember, for my next recollection is waking at my desk, the morning sun shining brightly through the scattered curtains as the clock rang soundly. I searched crazily about the desktop, scattering the manuscript to the corners of the room until satisfied that the mask was no where to be found…

DAY 2

I dismissed it as a nightmare brought about (as Doctor Cyril Perkins has informed me) by an excess of root vegetables and modern preservatives. I left a strongly worded note to Mrs Jenkins- "No root vegetables!", which she acknowledged accordingly.
The day ahead was tedious. I endured visitors that courted me with all manner of propositions so it was not until at 4 o’clock that I had the opportunity for reflection.
I find the cello to be soothing and reflective to the soul. Its music is mesmeric; a source of reclusive solace following the rigors of the day. I chose a Bach concerto and locked the study door to immerse myself within the music with my beloved Stradivarius.
It started slowly, bubbling like mountain stream into my ears, then seeping through my veins. I closed my eyes in rapture, feeling the pull of the strings against the bow that danced in gentle union with the gramophone. I became immersed to the music as though it were a newly drawn bath. Drawn deeper and deeper… so that I was one with the music; until a light breeze caused me distraction and I struggled with its rhythm. I closed my eyes tightly and gripped the bow, pulling at the strings like a blacksmith sharpening a blade. The breeze assumed the pattern of breath. It blew a stench toward me like halitosis until I steeled my nerves and blocked my panicked thought. "It’s your imagination", I repeated, continuing the music until crescendo whereupon I lay my bow to the floor and rested my head upon the instrument whilst breathing deeply.
"Knock – knock"
"What is the cause of this distraction?" I barked tersely.
Mrs Jenkins held firm instructions that I was not to be disturbed during practise. Surely she would not defy my instruction!
"Arthur?"…said a familiar voice.
It was the voice of James Waterstone my publisher and a dear, dear friend. He greeted me with a gentle smile as he held my hand warmly.
"Arthur…you look so pale and troubled…what is it?" he said as he led me to the lounge chair; pulling another over until he sat directly across.
"The breathing" I said with a broken voice.
"The breathing?"
"By God! … the incessant breathing…"
He looked at me in silence whilst I walked toward the curtain that swayed lightly to an unseen breeze. I wrenched it aside, then looked suddenly about. James peered into the empty space, then placed his hands upon the sill to study the streetscape below.
"A moment…wait just a moment", I said anxiously.
"What is it Arthur?"
I dismissed his comment whilst waiting for the mask…
After several minutes I turned upon him.
"What is this about James? … have we an appointment?"
"An appointment?"…James laughed…"You invited me to view the manuscript, we arranged it just yesterday. It’s 6 o’clock by gosh!"
I closed my eyes, touching my forehead whilst resting my hand upon the desk.
"I’m sorry James…I’ve kept late hours"
I walked toward the wall safe where I turned the combination until the door hung open thus allowing my retrieval of the manuscript, which I passed into his safe hands. He leafed through it quizzically, his brow furrowed further as he turned each page.
"It’s a departure from your normal style" he said quietly. "The illustrations are something new …quite disturbing"
"What are you talking of James?"
I took it from his hand and placed it upon the desk whilst studying its contents…
"I did not write this!"
"I recognise your writing!"
The neatly slanted writing crept like a spider across the page in my own distinctive style. The cursive letters were recognisable as mine; yet the story and its illustrations were not of my invention. I studied them closely before turning to the cover to see an etching of the mask staring outwards.
"James, I am going to have to ask you to leave…I feel quite ill"
I did not rise from my seat as James departed. I sat firmly at my desk reading the manuscript - pouring through its pages until I had finished the tale, which was late into the night.

08/14/2003

Author's Note: A work in progress posted for comment & criticism...that shall be continued...

Posted on 08/14/2003
Copyright © 2024 Graeme Fielden

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Max Bouillet on 08/14/03 at 02:46 PM

Night two is excellent. The story line is addictive and the charactarization has been nearly perfect. I'm hooked --so I hope you continue this story. By the way, you adhere to the time period exceptionally well. Thanks.

Posted by Jeanne Marie Hoffman on 08/14/03 at 03:26 PM

Okay, so now there are TWO stories I'm just itching to hear more about... I can't wait to read more on this!

Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 08/14/03 at 09:18 PM

The mystery intensifies! I wait with baited breath!

Return to the Previous Page
 

pathetic.org Version 7.3.2 May 2004 Terms and Conditions of Use 0 member(s) and 2 visitor(s) online
All works Copyright © 2024 their respective authors. Page Generated In 0 Second(s)