A Man Upstairs
Unsettling verse
by Christopher Warren
“A Man Upstairs” by Christopher Warren
Copyright © 2017, 2024. No rights reserved.
This book was originally published and copyrighted in 2017, and is now being dedicated to the public domain.
To the extent possible under law, Christopher Warren has waived all copyright and related or neighboring rights to “A Man Upstairs,” including all poems. This publication may be reproduced in part or in full, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise—without prior written permission from the publisher.
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To all who like to keep
small books on their nightstands.
1 - Beware
2 - A Man Upstairs
3 - To Forget
4 - The Red Letters
5 - Grandmother
6 - Parasite
7 - City of Vegetables
8 - Cornflakes
9 - A Dream
10 - The Man in the Hut
11 - I am the Writer
12 - Mrs. Manifesto
13 - Small Boy, Large Mouth
14 - What Cannot Get You
I’m the kind of man who has a lot of nightmares.
I can hardly sleep, and my voice carries the weight of a month-long headache.
I try not to drink, but I think you can guess just how well that’s worked out.
Every day feels like the same faded reel.
All the colors lack their shine, and my voice isn’t worth singing.
But I’ll tell you why.
There’s a house up on Hyde corner, filled with rats and spiders.
It’s where I go to write when the rain pelts down, when the wind is too loud to sleep.
It smells like a funeral there, except in the attic, where the aroma of dirtied paper festers past the tallest step.
The only room is for serious work. Where all you need are the tools:
A chair, table, moldy box of ink rolls, and the typewriter.
I’ve spent nights there, easily.
Not a bite to eat, but plenty cups of musty water from the roof gutter.
Dust is always settled here–the most a man could ask.
This is where I confess my unspeakable dreams, and nightmares that refuse words.
What I’ll tell you tonight, is just one of many. But the story goes like this:
I was walking past the dining room for a glass of water.
This was three years ago,
And of course,
A day like any other.
My throat burned raw from mucus left unattended, so that was my focus:
Taking one step after another past room after room.
And I saw something that I don’t think many have the unlucky chance to witness.
In our dining room, there’s a window that looks out into nothing.
A dirty suburban street,
Maybe a wandering car,
But nothing at all really.
That day, there was a man in the glass–
Staring lopsided at what lay out of frame.
I thought of old films,
An abandoned tome of poetry.
What made this so different?
But it wasn’t there in an instant, and when I stepped back to see, I realized that would be the only glimpse I’d get.
The sight brought back my headache, which hollered bloody murder about pills and “lights off.”
There was something about that face that had me peek around the corners.
Not something you’d ever ask to see in your life.
The nightmares started then, and that’s when I stared eyeing the bottle.
You can’t put a sentence to it–
How the progression started–
But it seemed the storms would never let up. I remember thinking at night how long I would let this repeat.
As soon as that face in the glass met my eye, the scenery stopped changing.
I began sitting. Staring. It quickly became my second full-time job.
Then I was fired, and then it was my main occupation.
One morning, I woke with that familiar burn in my throat.
That’s when I found myself walking to the kitchen again, and of course, past the window.
I remembered what had been so odd. Why I felt the returning headache:
The apples on the dining room table were red.
The ripening avocados–brassy green.
The face in the glass wasn’t like that at all.
All color had been brushed clean. Old movies.
And the exposure was wrong too.
The darks were muddy and spattered with grain, though the whites were eerily clear.
A pale face with an elongated jaw, eyes that stared with understanding, maybe a sadness buried deep.
And then I blinked, and it was gone.
Though it all held a scent of familiarity, there was one question I was left with.
What color were those dead marbles?
The following weeks held dreams of fish heads, severed, and heaping in plastic bags. Maggots writhed over the damp bones of a rotting carcass.
Memories buried deep in there.
Things I hadn’t meant to do.
Meant to say.
But I tried to focus on the color…
You know the rest. That same focus directed towards the bottle, then the pills, and now the rain outside the window.
People say it’s alright to be afraid, but is it? When the fear is something you asked for without realizing?
I realized that maybe it was a good idea to stop talking in my sleep.
This is no blessing. No weight to carry on your shoulders.
And that’s what those eyes told me when I saw them.
The ones in the glass which lost all color.
There wasn’t a soul in that room but my own.
No object of note
But my sympathetic eyes with deceased familiarity–
A Polaroid fading white with time
A single caption etched in pencil:
Beware.
Our tenant moved in last week.
But now we call him “the man upstairs.”
He’s quiet mostly, hardly speaks a word.
No visitors. No telephone calls. Not a letter to his name.
But he pays the rent, eight-o-clock on Sunday morning after four weeks time.
He never signs the letters, just “K” on the back in pencil.
There’s no disagreeing, he’s a little odd.
But you can’t complain when the rent is on time.
Always leaves at odd hours. His departing sign: the scent of cheap coffee.
It’s almost the only way you’d know he’s gone.
But he’s never really gone, that’s just it.
You see, there’s this little game we play.
The man upstairs works the night shift. Come sunset, the kitchen reeks of coffee again.
I’ll be reading my book, listening to crickets, and the dog sitting at the fireplace.
And if I press my ear to the wall, I can hear him shifting around.
There’s a sigh, and I hear the bedclothes rustle. The bed frame creaks under his weight.
And though I’ve gone upstairs to knock, he never answers.
The halls are silent, and even pressing my ear directly to his door… Nothing.
So I get back in bed and continue my reading until I hear him shifting again.
The tension in those quiet moments don’t compare to any other,
like I’m waiting to be stabbed in the dark.
He’ll start moving again.
I contemplate the next move.
I toss a breath mint into my mouth, and the coffee stench becomes tolerable.
During these times, I can’t say I’m focused on the book at all.
Rather, I’m picturing the man upstairs.
Is he sound asleep, or does he lay there with his eyes open?
Worried about some abstract concept that refuses to lay still?
He rolls over again, and I think he knocks something onto the floor.
Just this dull thud. Then the stillness again.
The game continues until I can’t keep my eyes open, and I can never remember those last moments. The last thing to reach my ears.
It happens every night I’m alone in bed, without fail.
There’s just the dog, my book, and the man upstairs–
Making these odd sounds at odd hours.
Strange. Sometimes I think he sleeps better than I do.
But it’s impossible, because I know somehow, he isn’t there.
I know it. Or at least… I think I know.
There’s no better games than the ones we play
Before bed on those lonely nights.
And after a long day, strangely, there’s this alluring feeling–this excitement.
To know that I’ll be laying in bed, with dog and book, and ear to the wall.
Listening to the man upstairs.
“Five bucks,” the salesman told me.
Whatever works, I thought. It’s worth that and more.
I should have smiled on my way home, but I couldn’t. Even though I was thankful.
I recognized my house as I pulled onto Maple street, once again feeling that hesitant relief.
I remembered which key unlocked the front door,
Which hall lead to the bedroom, and which phone number to call if I ever felt lost.
Relief? No, but I guess I just felt lucky.
The device came to my desk with a clunk.
I had to stare at it for a moment,
Just to let everything soak in.
I would need to carve out a big hole.
Let everything bleed out.
In the silence of my office, I told it everything. My name, my address, who I was, my story, all the little bits too.
There were things I wish I never had to think about again, let alone speak.
Nightmares that I wish were possible to…
Well, I wouldn’t want to tarnish the idea.
Perhaps it’s possible.
But for my own sake, I recorded everything I could think of.
Even the unspeakable.
My tears were heavy by the end, and I lay with my face on the desk, a broken imitation of a person.
I lay there until the machine clicked off,
And then some.
I opened my eyes to sunset out the window–
Realizing I’d dismissed the passage of time.
But I’d forgotten something. Something.
And I didn’t have the fingers to place it.
There are these things, that live in your eyes.
Little worms, and dots, and strings.
Floaters.
They started cropping up a little more at a time:
Standing in corners and hiding behind furniture if I ever dared to look.
I learned very quickly that memory is the same in some ways.
I tried to direct my focus, to pinpoint exactly what it was that I was missing.
Pens and pads lay strewn on the dining room table,
But at the slightest hint, the little fibers would move out of sight, and I would be lost–
Stranded in a hazy state of conscious shifting out from under me.
There were fires of a fading memory leaving things behind.
There were piles of ash.
Slivers of glass I couldn’t rid without slicing my fingers open,
So they’d fall back into the pile again.
No fire can burn them.
They’re already charred remains,
And the heat would disperse the ash into the air.
It’s all I can breathe.
And though I know I’m not better off without,
It seems that’s all that stays.
All I have to look at.
The sole reason I have to cry into the tape deck as a ritual–
The same way I brush my teeth,
Take my showers,
Go to work.
Deep down, that fear is always there.
When I’ll run out of the things I’m holding onto.
When all I’ll have left is a city of ashes behind me.
Burning, stinking,
Grotesque reminders
Of who I am.
Damned to forget.
Damned to remember.
It was late.
I was up reading articles, like you do.
Some news about weird scientific developments,
Political gibberish, the stuff the cool kids say,
And then something else.
I scroll down, and there’s this article screaming in red text:
MURDERER AT LARGE.
Now, I have to explain.
There are lots of things that scare me. Some are relatively normal, like death and finances.
But things like these… Not so much.
I grew up reading scary stories, and we all know how that works out.
Like my parents, firm in logic, always told me:
Don’t be stupid. Don’t walk around at night with a full wallet. Always keep your phone with you, and you’ll be fine.
I can safely say, after thirty-odd years of no trouble, that this method works.
The crazy people just want your money. Plain and simple.
I believed that too–another thing in my toolkit provided by my parents.
If you don’t ask for trouble, you’re not going to get it.
Stay out of trouble, and there’ll be no trouble.
All of these things pass through my mind. An automatic filter, you could say, where the fear is shot down instantly.
I scroll past more articles, more events that put any sort of functioning brain into clinical depression.
I ask why I do this to myself. Is life too happy right now?
So I begin scrolling up–clambering for a scrap of positivity in the sea of abandoned hope.
And staring right back at me once again, are those large, red letters.
MURDERER AT LARGE.
Of course, I have to tell you:
Though my filter is strong, though I’ve been told again and again that I’m not effected by these sorts of things, there’s always a voice that urges the opposite.
The voice is just as urgent as those letters.
But I calm my unease. I’m not asking for trouble.
I’m in my studio apartment reading news articles.
There’s a security guard on watch most nights, and if anyone wants to start trouble, they can go to him.
But I made the mistake of clicking the article.
The guys face is a year’s worth of nightmares:
Colorless skin, lidless eyes sunken in his head,
Mouth half-open, as if for some insect to crawl out.
My instinct is to scroll down, but I’m petrified.
Now, you see, that’s when the filter really starts to lose its power.
I turn to look at the front door, or rather, the window by the front door.
I can’t help but think about what I would do if I saw that face there.
The thought is nearly impossible. But what would my parents say?
Get your phone?
Call the police?
That’s a fair enough answer. What else can you do?
But then I’m reminded again:
You don’t get trouble if you don’t ask for it.
But then you start to realize…
Some crazy people don’t care about getting your money.
That’s why they’re crazy.
Their sense of reality is eroded.
All they care to see is the look on your face…
And WHAT?
I have to snap myself out of that mindset. It’s like a train–one you have to get off of before it’s gone too far.
Alright, I tell myself, just go back and page through the news.
But deep down I know this option is no better.
I need something else. Something worth a laugh, just to get my mind away from that face.
Then as I’m getting ready to page out, I see that title again.
MURDERER AT LARGE.
Next to those words, is the mugshot. The thumbnail for the snippet of text.
Somehow I’d missed it before, but how could I?
Murderer at large. Ha.
I didn’t even bother to properly read it.
And I know I shouldn’t have thought of that, because of course that’s all I can think about now.
I try to page through collections of humorous anecdotes, but that’s just a distraction from the real only option.
I tell myself that if I can get more information, perhaps I’ll realize that my fear is pointless. Nothing to fear.
But then I remember that I’ll have to see that face again.
Is it worth it?
Perhaps so. The discomfort is going to be eradicated by the knowledge I’m going to be alright.
But is this asking for trouble?
It’s damning either way. Screw it.
I tabbed back to the article, failing to mentally prepare myself for the awful visage.
I have to ignore it. And when those eyes flash up on my screen once again, I scroll down to the safe world of letters and words and sentences.
The text floats past. This guy was a college student. Same one I went to.
Then one day he decides to hack off his dorm mate’s limbs. The dorm mate, being his brother.
I say I’m reading this, but all I’m really thinking about is this Stephen King recording.
A live show, where he introduces his story explaining the likelihood of people following you home.
Getting into your house without you knowing.
Suggesting that the position of your shower curtain is important to note.
But you can’t think about those things.
You just can’t.
So whatever. This guy’s a nut, he’s armed, and he’s in my area.
Great. I think. Fucking great.
And as if the sick bastard wanted to hand me a response,
There’s a knock at my door.
My brain instinctively hops on the nonsense.
People in horror films would answer the door.
But that’s a damning feeling, because who in their sane mind wouldn’t answer the door, unless they knew something terrible was standing just outside.
I tell myself that I’m that person, and I’ll be damned for both responses being the wrong one.
To heck with it. Sure, I’ll answer the door.
But not before taking a look through that peephole.
Soon enough, I’m pressed to the entry like I’m honing in seismic abilities.
Should’ve known I wouldn’t be able to see squat on a completely lightless doorstep.
And if I turn on the light, whoever it is will know I’m home.
So I wait–pulling my face away from the eye hole, and lean my back up against the door with held breath.
For some reason, whoever it is never knocked again.
Just once.
Nothing more.
But whatever. Surely, whoever it is, assuming they don’t have the face of a waterlogged corpse, can come back in the morning like any reasonable person would.
But killers are not reasonable,
Or at least, so I’ve heard.
They want to feel what it’s like to stick the knife in.
To hear the sounds that’ll gurgle up from your throat.
See th–
And I was shaken from the mental visage.
The doorknob.
Jiggling.
Screw it, I thought, there’s… No reason to wig out.
“Who is it?” I call, failing to sound unaffected.
I hear a swallow, and then the faintest voice say, “Postman. You have a package.”
“Leave it on the doorstep!” I said, realizing too late how harsh that sounded.
Another moment goes by, and I think he’s shifting around under his clothes out there.
“I can’t do that, sir. I need a signature.”
I figured now was about the right time to catch him red handed.
“What are you doing out on delivery this late?”
Then he didn’t say another word.
Shoes scuffled away outside,
And I didn’t turn my back on my way to the couch.
Serves me right.
Never looking at one of those articles again.
Ever.
My grandmother always hugged me before bed.
“Best grandson,” she’d always say. “Best in the world.”
Then she’d turn out the lights.
I’d see her shadow leave the room.
I can remember one of the last nights that happened.
Thunder rattled the window frames–
Candles, my only source of light.
“Yulen,” she told me, “Listen carefully, I have a story.”
I pulled up the covers, just a little.
She told me a story of a woodcutter,
Who after a long time of searching aimlessly in the woods for food, came upon a house.
The owner was nowhere to be found, but there was something cooking in the furnace–and nearly out of sight–
A pile of clothes on the bed.
The woodcutter lay on the tired mattress, enveloped by the cozy aroma of good cooking.
But it didn’t satisfy his curiosity.
Who on earth would live in such a place?
He imagined a beautiful woman: draped in her head of blonde hair, perhaps leaving to pick fruits.
_She would be back, _the woodcutter thought.
So he waited.
Long into the night, there was still the smell of roast. Even after the furnace died down.
Did she get lost?
Had she been left our there to die?
The woodcutter sat up in the bed, aching from prolonged rest.
He felt he must search for this woman.
Whoever she was.
So he abandoned the wonderful smells, the comfort of her house, and began his trek.
The forest was dark.
Darker than closed eyes,
Or a cemetery at midnight.
Off in the distance he heard a noise, a strange clatter–
And my grandmother stopped there.
I lifted an arm out from under the covers, “Gramma, what happened to the woodcutter after he heard the noise?”
Gramma paused and stared off into the open window,
At the dark clouds floating past.
“I’m not sure, son. I’ll need to tell you the rest later.”
She turned out the lights, and I saw her shadow leave the room.
Ever since that night, (that moment really,) Gramma wasn’t quite the same.
That next morning,
I asked her about the woodcutter again–
What happened to the woman who lived out in the woods?
She was silent for ages.
Once again, her eyes sat fascinated at what lie outside our kitchen window.
When she did speak, it was three words:
“I. don’t. know.”
That was the last time she spoke to me. My parents explained as best they could, that Granny wasn’t feeling well.
But I wanted to know what happened.
Neither of my parents knew the story.
No clue what I was even talking about.
Shoo, they told me without words.
Over time, young as I was, the notion of senility began to find its place in my understanding.
At the time, I only thought of it as Grandma not feeling well.
But children are smart.
A lot smarter than they’re given credit.
Months later, another storm rolled in.
Grandma was at the hospital. Permanently.
Though I wouldn’t know that for a long time.
I lay there in bed, trying to get my focus off the thunder rumbling outside.
My mind wandered to a story I remembered, about a woodcutter lost in the forest.
He found a house where a woman lived.
He waited for her, but she never returned.
After considering the situation, he decided to search for her in the woods.
But as he was walking along in the pitch dark,
He heard a–
And at that moment, there was a creak from my doorway.
I turned over,
And there was grandma–standing in the hall, looking in–
Though she was mostly veiled in shadow.
“Grandma!” I said. “I didn’t know you came back from the hospital!”
She didn’t say anything.
Still looking out my bedroom window.
That’s when I knew something wasn’t right.
“Grandma, what happened to the woodcutter?”
As soon as I said that, her head turned a quarter to look directly at me.
No words.
“…Grandma?”
Then she walked away, and I didn’t see her shadow as she passed the hall light.
She must have stood there to wait.
But for what?
I couldn’t sleep the rest of that night.
I didn’t know how I was going to ask my parents about it.
Why Grandma was home.
When dawn broke the next day,
There was no way to get out of bed.
My stomach was perforated.
My eyes aching, and knees shivering.
Mom and Dad checked on me, but I lacked much explanation.
I felt sick. That’s what I told them.
My mother brought me water and toast,
But still, I would not forget that night–
To be haunted by my own thoughts more pervasively than any ghost.
“What happened to Grandma?” I asked later that evening.
My mother sunk her face into her hands.
The wind seemed to trail off outside.
“I don’t know where she is, Yulen. She ran away.”
I got out of the bed, and walked over to my mother for a hug.
Her shoes lay wet with tears.
“It’s going to be fine mom, it will. Grandma is going to be okay.”
She was crying so hard: tremors running through her.
I’ve never felt so alone, knowing I couldn’t help.
Mom planted herself on the couch, face buried in a pillow.
On my walk back, that image of Grandma standing in the hall came back to me.
Her head, sharply turning.
The shadowed expression.
“Best grandson,” she always said.
And when I passed through my bedroom doorway, I saw the last I would ever see of Grandma.
A pile of clothes–her clothes,
Sitting on the bed.
Sheets drawn.
They say that a parent always loves their child.
Just something built-in, hard-wired.
But I never cared for mine. Really, I suppose it lost its novelty.
My husband never would have suspected, if my eyes hadn’t given it away.
I’ve got a killer smile, and it’s contagious,
But he’s got a strong radar.
I grinned at my swelling belly.
Some of those nights were the most comforting, passionate.
Almost exciting for me.
But in my life, good things take a long time to build, and then they seldom last.
My husband is well aware of this, all too familiar in fact.
But when it came down to having a child, I knew the pattern wouldn’t change.
Portrait of a woman eternally on a treadmill.
But it made my husband a pleasant man, so I let him roll with it.
What can I say?
I let the damn thing grow in me. Hubby would joke that it was like a whole other person.
Really, he was just stating the obvious, but couldn’t deny the spring in his step was cute.
It was a while later when he really noticed.
He’d be awake, mumbling into my chest, and I’d have to resist the urge to laugh.
I patted the back of his head, and maybe a hint of a chuckle slipped my teeth. That time, my grin gave it away.
He was intent on tickling me that night, and well…
He did a good job.
We’d let it slip last time, but I made sure to get another jar.
Let him pull out, and fill the glass–
Not much came out that time. Maybe that was my sign.
He thinks I’m a little kinky,
But, well… it’s more than I’ve let on.
That time, I think the ecstasy warded off his suspicion.
Wouldn’t be letting my guard down anymore though.
A few months pass, and I can tell it’s the night.
I grab a few things, and we’re out the door.
Everything is aching–
The time I’ve been dreading the most. But I’ve dreamed to be just myself once again.
They keep me breathing, and the kid finally pops out.
At first my husband’s emotions play out just like they do on screen.
Though I’m exhausted, that grin starts to slip back while he stares at the child.
Everything settles, and in a few hours, we’re admitted to leave.
Hubby looks at me: smiling with the bundle in his arms.
I get ready to walk to the car, but before I do,
I hand him a packet.
The packet.
I never look back, and half way down the corridor, I just make out his screams through the bustle of urgent nurses and doctors.
The only thing on my mind is what my new life’s going to be like. Well, that, and how soon I’ll hear back from legal.
I get in the car. My car, and I think of whatever else I’m going to need at home.
Clothes, shoes, whatever’s in the filing cabinet…
And the jar in the freezer.
And the jars downstairs.
I’d need some more ice, too. For the cooler.
So I could take my collection with me.
Life is far too short to be stuck in one thing.
Gotta take as much as you possibly can while you’re young.
And when things start to settle down…
Give something back.
Ketchup is a delicacy where I’m from.
Many don’t believe me, but they’re wrong.
Or maybe it’s not an inability to believe, but to see outside the scope of vision.
I’ve spent many long nights considering the possibilities.
Toast over a small fire.
Stars flickering outside.
All alone besides a stolen loaf of bread–
And to dream of the taste of vinegar,
A whiff of salt, a hint of ocean,
And the red of a ripe tomato dimly shining in the poor light.
I’d be happy then, and perhaps the only one.
Smiling. Leaning against a brick wall–my lover.
And all there is to see–staring out far beyond the fence–
Dark remnants of buildings, hollow like rotten ears of corn.
Now and then, a car may pass,
And I’m forced to close my eyes at the brightness.
Buttery yellow floodlights won’t leave you smiling, not unless a part of you is gone.
Good thing I didn’t lose my grip.
The sight plagued me–
Seeing the loaf of bread tumbling from my hands and onto the cold, dead leaves that blanketed the concrete.
Everything would cease to exist for one moment.
There would be a screaming voice,
A clap of thunder,
And I’d be starving for an eternity.
The other significant problem of living like this is the fact that I can’t tell if it’s sunrise or sunset.
The days tend to leave you flustered like that.
I look at my watch and damn myself for not being one of those upper-class Yankees,
The ones with the handkerchiefs and yellow stockings.
Tomato-red vests. You know the type.
When I moved here, half a decade ago,
There was so much to want. So much to hope for.
I didn’t know then,
That time carries acidic properties.
I would look at those men–
Eyes of eggs, heads of cabbage–
And a city of vegetables
To live and breath for life.
But I could never disregard a tomato,
Or reject a peach,
And sleep with myself at night.
No matter how shiny the corn.
Green, the pears.
Filling, the bread.
Men on the street would laugh as they passed, and sometimes I would laugh back,
Because I knew I’d be satisfied.
But what can I say now?
Sitting at an orange fire, a moon made of brie,
And I’m not hungry anymore–
Though my stomach often screams.
So I look over to the guy and say, “HEY! How about them cornflakes?”
He gives me this look as if I just stole his wallet before stabbing his wife and decapitating the family dog:
A very specific expression they trained me to point out in the US Navy.
You learn a lot when you’re over there.
“What?” he says. “Cornflakes?”
Then he steps away from the bar and begins to fiddle his arms around in his pockets.
“What’s wrong?” I say, and walk over to comfort him.
“Get your hands offa me, I don’t want any o’ your business!” then he storms out of the bar.
I stand there,
Dejected.
The same feeling I had when Mother opened the bottom cupboard and made a mess of my petrified mouse collection.
I try to explain these kinds of things,
But they never listen.
I stumble outside, furiously jamming the key into my car door, and prepare to take the damn thing twenty-past speed limit.
I’m roarin’ down the highway, other cars flying behind like shiny every-colored beetles, sun setting in front of me with those weird long shadows.
Half an hour later I stumble into my apartment.
Can’t give less of a damn about the fact I can’t remember where I left my house keys,
Just that the door was unlocked all day.
I walk into the room and see copies of his awful face plastered everywhere.
John Monroe.
Learned to hate the name just as much.
Photo of him standing next to his Chevrolet.
Photo of him on a nice day at the pool.
Photo of him typing emails furiously at his desk…
Even one of him doing dishes in the nude.
I pull up the Rolodex or whatever the kid’s call em’, and run my dirty little fingers over them.
There’s the number, I think, then I reach for the phone.
The line is silent for a little while,
Just this periodic ringing that always seems to remind me of hospitals.
Whatever, whatever, I think,_ pick the fuck up._
Finally there’s a click.
“Hello?” says a woman’s voice. Blunt and shaky… Like an intoxicated bar of soap.
“Yes, well dear, I…” and the thought loses me for just a moment.
Shifting on the other end…
“I just wanted to let you and your lover know, just one little thing… I think. It’s about the cornflakes. Be there in a flash.”
I let the line drop, but not before I catch the tail start of a scream.
She knows now. Probably getting dressed.
I check my boots for silverfish and dart out the front door. Fuck the keys.
I charge down the road a good five minutes until I see Monroe’s house jutting out like all bad men’s houses do.
You can always tell
Because the pink tassels on the fence.
I bust in, and sure enough, my wife’s sittin’ half-naked on the kitchen table, rushing to get her corduroys–
But she’s frozen for a second.
Stopped dead still like I’m some kind of 18-wheeler.
I tell her to wait just a moment, but then the door swings open.
Monroe.
And so before I run over to the kitchen to grab something from the knife rack I carefully pinpointed in my investigation, I give him one square look, and ask: “so how about the cornflakes?”
He gives me that look again–like I stabbed his wife, pissed on his couch, and decapitated the family dog.
Slight variation, but each expression is surprisingly similar.
At this point is seems like he’s just asking for it,
So that’s what I did.
Except he forgot,
It’s MY wife. MINE.
Well, not anymore.
Last time I’ve ever seen anyone use cereal as a cover up.
Idiots.
This place is called a tea house.
Sunlight beams in through the glass door,
Though really I guess,
It’s more like a Coffee shop.
The only other light, is an ugly florescent, flickering above an empty salad bar;
An image of monotony.
The scent of misfortune.
Ugliest of all, is the sallow ocher paint
And furniture, almost obsidian, lonely and broken amidst the emptiness.
The men behind the counter stare aimlessly, standing still and devising existence.
I would do the same,
But I’m not sure what to order.
At once, they shuffle around, and I see their hats are stained.
Stained with? I didn’t want to know.
The air is frigid, and an electric current in my mind suggests it’s about the right time to leave.
But I ignore my instinct.
No birdsong plays outside on little cardboard speakers.
The postman doesn’t laugh as he trots past.
I glare at my shoes;
One of the most comfortable staring points in times of stress.
You can study them for hours, even if they’re the least familiar thing in the room.
I raise a glance to see if there is something on the weekly special–
But strangely,
There is no menu.
And that’s how I know this is a nightmare.
The men begin their chastising, “why don’t you order?! What do you want?!”
And I can’t control my eyes darting here and there for the answer, knowing damn well that it’s no use.
I stand with their scoldings hitting me at full-force,
And turning to leave, to find the answer outside,
Someone is already standing there.
It’s wrong.
Wrong in all forms and mismatched shards of the word.
Blonde hair glistening in the sun,
Crooked hips, and hands lifting a drink.
Coffee. Souring coffee held in one hand, and a mist outside, that stinks of powdered lemonade.
I look to my servers, but they only provide blank stares.
Envious. Lust–filled breaths.
None of this makes any sense, none of this wants me to–
Then she’s pressed up to me, and I feel just how…
No, I think. This can’t and won’t and shouldn’t.
But it’s too late. I try to scream but her smile is bearing down on me.
So pale,
So shiny in that lemon light.
She runs a hand up and down my shoulder’s which are damp with her cloying breath.
But it smells so nice. Nicer than I could have ever imagined…
I don’t want this. I do not WANT THIS.
And as her hand slides down my pants,
I am met with a mortal terror –
One that we are given before birth,
One we all experience.
Her smile widens ’till I think I can see the farthest molars.
Something dripping off the side of her face.
Wet. Dark.
Red.
Her fabricated, multi-color nails scratch at my manhood,
And letting her coffee fall to a mess on the floor,
She utilizes her free hand to caress the energy from my shoulder.
“Pretty big down there,” she says.
A growl.
A gasp.
“Let me show you where I live.”
For all that I value, I push.
I shove.
Her back arches and elongates, running those plastic nails into me,
And I’m fused to the wall.
A wet thing pokes through –
This thick, purple worm
Weaving in and out.
In and out
Between her teeth, in search of a host.
“I’ll be inside you,” she whispers, her tiger grin engulfing.
The right side of her face is almost without skin;
The eyes lidless,
And blonde hair reaching out its knotted fingers.
“Take me… Oh please, let me show you–”
I run, evaporating from under her claws and stumbling toward the door.
I do not turn, I do not dare a second look,
But I hear her laughing; inhuman screeches
That fill the air like smoke.
And I can still feel her spider trails creep across my skin.
Outside the sky is the purple of a clotted artery.
The clouds are hazy eyes of ash.
No wind.
Nothing to the air but heaviness.
It is all melting away;
Bleeding out dark ink and withering to something else, and I am tempted.
Daring to see it all.
But I trip, and six-feet’s worth of fear comes crashing with me.
With all the ink,
Fading, whirling,
I’m sure my muscles will do the same.
They chastise with my efforts.
Do not bother, do not take heed,
For sleep is the only answer.
And though I do not wish to listen,
There is a hand upon my back,
And the familiar bite of fabrication.
The sting of acetone.
You feel this? Nauseating. Whirling blood all through my skull.
Deeper. Louder.
Running its tongue through the nerveless creases in my brain.
I shut my eyes, face to the ground,
Back to the sky.
Her hands are so warm,
And I think of the shower running hot–
The pleasant tremor of water traveling up my back.
I feel her lips kissing me there,
And oh so sweet
Is the smell of death from her mouth.
No energy to run,
To push her off,
To stop the terrible things she does
As she wraps her skin around me
Into a cackling suit which I must wear.
There is no way to remember what is lost,
Because the moments will find you alone, and without your notebook.
I do not remember what sparked within me: deep in the semi-unconscious blur,
But I escaped into the cold, unflinching edge of reality.
And if I hadn’t done whatever it was,
I may have never woken up.
There’s a man in a hut, in the middle of the woods.
Lives all by himself, no dogs or cats, just the occasional birdsong…
Maybe insects.
There’s never a light on in there–
So dark, you could lose the way out.
The trees bend in all directions. Most of them lie;
They don’t know which way to the clearing.
I went up there once.
Dark as pitch.
Never would know someone was living there,
Except the door was locked.
But I could hear the sound of moving furniture,
And a glint of light from the kitchen window…
A grandfather clock.
He was standing there.
Looking at me from the dark.
I couldn’t see his mouth, but his eyes were wide open.
His hair: a knotted mess.
I knocked on the door…
One.
Two.
Three–
But nobody answered.
The porch cast a shadow in the dark.
Still nothing.
The doorknob wouldn’t turn.
He keeps the paint fresh on the old wood fence.
They almost glint like teeth in the moonlight,
But there was no moon.
Not that night.
I think the kids come up here to play–
Their shoe tracks mark the ground by the walkway.
He doesn’t seem pleasant,
Not at all…
I can hear him, hammering away
At a picture on the wall.
Or maybe they’re footsteps
I can’t tell.
The sound of a dragging chair.
Well I’m not sure if they know, but there’s a man in this hut.
Doesn’t get too many visitors, I’m sure.
And now there’s a light, dim as ever
Seeping out through a crack under the door.
One.
Two.
Three—
You’d think he’s fixing up the pipes,
But that’s too simple.
The question, is why?
I hear one of them now;
One of the kids from the school in town.
What are they doing up so late?
In a place like this ...
You don’t want to be up here.
Not at his house.
Then the door swings open, but I can’t see anyone.
A child giggles, then the door shuts.
There’s a man in a hut, in the middle of the woods—
Lives all by himself, no dogs or cats, just the occasional birdsong.
Maybe insects.
I can still hear that giggling
Deep inside.
But I’m not going in…
Not a chance.
I am the writer.
I am a tortured soul.
Some awful, unspeakable horror happened to me when I was a child, and I was never the same since.
I wake up in the evening,
Because I can write knowing no one is awake.
The streets are dark at night,
And all is silent.
That’s when I do my work.
There is a large oak chair in the shed. That’s my writing chair.
When it’s not in use, I keep it covered in a white sheet, because white sheets are like ghosts.
I have a strong affection for ghosts.
My schedule is very precise. You have to be precise, otherwise you can’t be a writer.
How would you know which words mattered to the page?
Discipline.
I’m never a minute late, nor early, and without my discipline I am a useless shell of a man. I do not work, because words are my full-time job.
I do not leave my house when I write, because there is no magic in other people.
What do they know about words?
Every day, six-o-clock in the evening
To seven in the morning, I’m in my shed.
The desk I work at is made of a fine oak –
Discarded by some upper-class moneybag,
And later owned by an artist of the occult.
It is covered in unidentifiable black and brown stains, which I do not question the nature of. My job as a writer is not to lie to you, I am only a mirror.
So I reiterate: the stains are brown and black,
And the sheet is white.
The other important details, lie in the tools.
Computers are incompetent in this regard. They’re shiny, bright, and generally upsetting to the eyes of a sensitive individual like myself.
People like computers, because they too were made by tortured individuals in backyard sheds. But they’re not for me. A writer.
The job demands a device which is real.
Like hammer and nails.
I keep those lying around too: it is a shed, after all.
No. I write using ink and paper–
They are the life and soul of words themselves. Anything else is just speaking nonsense into a black hole.
But, to be clear, I do not use pens.
I do not use ink wells.
I do not write longhand, because that is for poets,
And you should be well aware what my occupation is by now.
I wake up at exactly 5:59 PM.
Before I was a writer, I would set an alarm, but that has become redundant;
As soon as it is 5:59, my eyes peel back, and my head instinctively turns to the bedside clock – just to make sure.
But I’m always right on time.
My coffee is ready in exactly fifteen minutes from then, which is just enough time to shower and brush my teeth.
I prefer strong abrasives to the wimpy gels they make normal toothpaste with, so I keep my teeth stark white with sodium bicarbonate.
It’s no paid advertisement,
Just the truth.
I then drink exactly twelve ounces of 125 degrees Fahrenheit coffee, which makes a mess of the perfect white which are my teeth.
This is because the act is a metaphor for life,
Which perfectly displays how effort is destroyed by pleasure.
I like to think
It makes me a meaningful individual.
Then I draw lines all over a sheet of printer paper–
More like scribbles actually.
It’s the unrealized meaning that goes into every single story I tell.
Some look like car accidents when I’m finished,
Others, roadkill.
Another portion are different vivid descriptions that cannot be described, and song lyrics without words.
Once I’m finished, I carry the coffee and scribbles into the backyard shed. I tape the paper to the wall with the rest of my collection, and then prepare to commit my next thirteen hours to the words.
I dust off the typewriter,
Remove the sheet from my oak chair,
And lock the shed door.
I never use lamps, due to the fact that I’m a touch-typist, and being in complete darkness is really quite a pleasant diversion of reality.
In the dark, I pose my fingers, and let myself lean forward into it.
The rest that happens from the time I shut the door, to when I open it at seven?
Do I conjure the spirit of my deceased mother?
Or do I form my words using a planchette at the mercy of the spirits?
Is it possible that I fade from reality only to be replaced by an exact copy of my inner-conscious?
Well whatever it is,
It’s really magical,
And I’m not telling you.
Oh how I love you
And your diseased tapestries hanging from your limbs.
So soft and vibrant in the decay
Of everything I know.
If I could unravel every strand
Of every dream that lies within the cloth held skin-tight,
I would fill my books with stories of all that lay inside.
They are your secrets:
Dirty little sweat-rags
That line the corners of your mind and soften them–
The aching thoughts of pins and chains and razors, though a part of you is drawn
To how they glint
So weightlessly in the spotlight.
They dance the waltz of nightmare silhouettes upon your hidden teeth.
Are you smiling?
I would kill to know, my love.
I lay you down on the bed–not to feel or tamper with your untold delights, but just to feel the dampness of your skin,
And the comfort in your flower-stem arms.
So drained of life,
Yet full of cozy memories.
One day, I just might carry you
Away to some distant land where they know our lingo. Talk our talk. Sing our songs.
Dance our dances.
But those lands are far, and I’ve only got so much time before they find out, my dear. For love is no circus, no moonlight serenade, but a dance.
A weightless float over the glass,
And glistening off your marble skin.
We shall dance until sunrise, ’till my head falls off,
’Till I have nothing left but bones and dust.
But we shall stick together, and lie as one in our marble chest, staring up into the stars.
We shall be dancing in the heavens still…
But who am I to fantasize death?
No, for the time will come, and our hourglasses lay full as our wine bottle.
Still yet,
There is a burning in my gut
Which tells me that this barricade
Needs to fall as other hopes and dreams,
Though this won’t be as sad.
I revisit the thought.
To pull those tapestries.
Won’t you let me?
Of course. What words are you to say?
Nothing.
So I start unraveling.
Watching the beige skin of your cranium peel back.
It feels s-oooo good my lovely,
You do not understand.
Unraveling, unwinding
And a steadily growing pile of skin rises all around you, dull and dying on the floor, until finally I may see
All the glory that you really are.
Shall I remove your head to start? Then all the other limbs, to see how they sit connected?
Or shall I lift you by the hips and feel you over. Would that be rude? For you to be so exposed?
Of course not! This world has no rules.
But actually…
I fancy a new desire,
A temptation which I’ve near forgot.
We must dance my love. Dance with your skin glistening and reflecting in the pond water, and may I kiss your hardened lips? You shall never weigh much, for I fear they’ve built you just for looks.
But I know the eyes that wait behind there,
And I know a smile the world cannot see.
Then, we shall make love at midnight,
And when you’re satisfied I shall begin
To disassemble you to segments.
Just in time for our departing flight.
We shall take the plane to Nod,
And there will be no suspense like this, my love–
Though I fear what you have done,
And I’ve seen the looks of others,
For the inkling in my mind says:
I love plastic like no other.
“I’m hungry,” he said,
Pulling down the filthy corners of his face like broken shutters.
His eyes shine like dead marbles,
“Can you spare a buck?”
I thought of pop songs and stupid band names–
Nearly missing the words.
“Sorry kid. Don’t got a buck for ya’.”
But he followed behind me, making sure to smear that ugly frown so it was covering every inch of skin.
“But sir–”
I turned the corner;
Not because I had to,
But because I know how this stuff works.
You hand ’em a buck,
They walk off.
Next day, they’re sprawled over the concrete missin’ half their teeth and rollin’ around in broken glass.
The worst of ’em I’ve seen,
Still have needles pokin’ out their skin.
I go down the alley, wait until I make the gap…
Make another turn.
Nice and quiet, I think. Peace is free.
No kids askin’ me for bucks.
Whole street is cleared out,
But there’s smoke floatin’ through like some mad rave is piled up at the end.
Still pop songs. Band names.
One of ’em was called “Gor-Gor-Gorilla,” which is probably the worst.
Even one of those “one-word” names would be better.
Dust. Moonshine. Bliss.
Even one of those person-sounding names.
Kenny Swift. Roger Sutters. Something like that.
But this town ain’t nothin’ but sparkles, gorillas, and repetition.
I on the other hand, don’t mind a cup o’ wine
And some fine tunes.
Smoke gettin’ thicker.
Billowing and billowing from the dark.
I imagine there’s some kind of sax magician,
Or maybe a whole jazz coven–
Smoothin’ it out like abracadabra and hocus pocus.
Glitter and pixie dust.
Perhaps it’s a chill night,
Which brings doubt,
But in that case the ol’ bass man with his bass-playin’ hands would be workin’ his incantations.
I can almost hear it:
Driftin’ out that thick haze–
Music to my ears
Which do not hear the clickity-clack of little boy shoes on the concrete.
But this time I hear his words.
“Mister–”
“Whaddya want, kid? A buck?”
“Not exactly, sir.”
I turn back to see his weed of a shadow–
Growin’ through the dim light.
“Well what is it?”
“I’m hungry, sir.”
I see a glint of light again,
But it ain’t his marble eyes–
Like a dead child’s teddy.
No, it’s a different kind of glint.
“And what do you expect me to do about it?”
The bass outside is gettin’ louder,
And maybe the sax magician’s there too.
I have to suppress my excitement for this idiot.
“Well sir, seein’ as you’re the only one out here…” he steps closer.
Shadows darken.
“I suppose there’s just one thing.”
The chalk-white of his teeth poke out:
Smooth like marble.
Yellow like gold.
It’s not a happy kind of darkness behind those teeth…
Getting wider
And wider…
“Oh yeah, well what is it?”
I almost can’t hear over the music.
See through the mist.
The growing darkness–
“It’s really simple,” he laughs.
I feel my half-smile fading.
Seems like his voice is everywhere.
“You just have to stand right. there.”
I don’t like the sound of that,
Or the humidity steaming at my skin,
But then he–
He’s warned me about it a half-dozen times now.
It’s irrational, really. Insane.
And I certainly don’t want to believe it,
But he says there’s something in that bottle
That I should fear.
But I’m far from a fool,
Because it takes a reckless man to abuse the source,
And a lost hope to travel the path.
So I keep to my workbook: writing and scribbling and taking my notes.
When I’m all done, I’ve got a hand on the bottle
And the other in my hair–
Running thoughts up and down
Each row of consciousness.
But the joke’s on me, because I can’t keep my eyes off the bottle.
And my mind treads over what’s inside.
“Bad stuff,” he told me. “Really bad stuff.
“You don’t want that in you.”
But damn if I didn’t think about it,
And damn if I didn’t put it in me without hesitation.
This time though, because the words were having an effect,
I stopped half-way through.
It was easy to sit there. Easy to hold the bottle up to the light and watch as the stuff rippled behind the glass. Soundlessly.
Easy to take another sip.
But I stopped once its mouth hit mine.
Cold glass, resting on my bottom lip–
Feeling the cool air whisper past my gullet.
Drink me. Drink me.
I thought if I would, my neck would grow out
Like that poor girl in the book:
The one who cried a river.
That bottle said “Drink me” too,
But she was naive.
In the end I guess it worked out for her though.
Can’t complain with that.
So I thought, if I couldn’t drink this, I might as well get something out of it. It felt so nice on my lips.
I let my tongue caress the opening–
Cold. Round. But not oily like a gun barrel.
This was much better.
My wife was sleeping in the other room;
Her snores rev about as loud as passing motorbikes,
Which is why we’ve accepted the separation.
But I’m alright with it, because it gives me time
To drink.
To think.
To pace the rows of corn and plant seeds.
Maybe even harvest a bit.
She’s a pretty girl, my wife.
Hasn’t aged a day since we met,
Though I think she’d be happier here with me on the couch.
I haven’t asked her about that yet…
What my friend said.
It’s a little too soon to stop reminiscing,
And who knows when I’ll be ready to set this bottle down.
But my wife, she has this certain taste
When we kiss. Really nice.
Hardly anything better…
Except damn if the lip of this drink doesn’t have its own sweetness. Refreshing, too.
I can say a lot of things about my wife,
But she’s not refreshing. Not like that at least.
Maybe I can understand where my friend is coming from though.
It’s getting a little harder to tell which one has the best flavor.
I love it when she wears that strong stuff–
Somewhere between flowers and beach sand.
The whole room smells like that when it’s getting hot,
And she asks if it’s alright without clothes.
I never answer her with anything but a kiss, and she gives me this look when it all comes off.
No way to describe it perfectly–
But it’s something of a half-smile,
And her face…
Her gorgeous face is a whole other kind of retreat.
But that little dark something or other,
Floating around in the little dark glass,
Is what I need.
Because it’s winter,
And few things will warm you up on the inside like that.
I go in for another kiss,
Running my tongue in deliberate circles,
And I swear there’s something else to it.
A sensation.
Impossible to describe,
But easier to place.
Felt like the damn thing kissed back.
I stare down its dark mouth,
Or eye?
Whatever, I think, It’s a bottle.
But now I’m back to thinking about my wife again.
Skin so smooth, hair so soft,
And we can lay together like that
Long after sunset.
She’s sweeter than the drink. Yes. I feel it.
But there’s a dirty liar down there in that darkness.
Chortling. Whistling.
She ain’t no better than the feel on your lips.
Don’t take my word for it.
Try it for yourself. Again.
Oh how I wish I’d made a promise to myself.
Because this time
The feeling didn’t go away.
I realized my wife wasn’t snoring anymore.
All was still in the house,
Except one scream
Rising higher and higher in me.
I shut my eyes as its fingers massaged my tongue,
Surgical precision in how they moved further back–
Dodging the gag reflex.
Its dark, twisted forearm stuck out of the mouth,
And I could see all the little scratches.
The stains.
The tears that moistened its dripping skin.
Deeper and deeper
The fingers traveled.
Shhhhhhhhh.
They told me.
It’s alright now. You’ll be just fine.
It was impossible to hold my eyelids open any longer–
That forced relaxation
When your body demands sleep,
And there’s no better feeling than to lean your head back.
My body knew it was wrong. Everything within me knew that it was wrong, but I was tied in place.
And when I opened my eyes,
My wife was standing there–
That same look she has when we’re not wearing clothes.
No way to describe it perfectly,
But it’s something of a half-smile.
And her face…
Her gorgeous face is a whole other kind of retreat.
She stared at me.
Watched as I was devoured.
“Drink up,” she whispered,
“Don’t miss a drop.”
This time I didn’t like the warmth
That was coming off her body.
Her smile
Stretching out.
And how she hobbled
Closer…
And Closer…
Christopher Warren is the author of Midnight Meditations, (Un)Civilized, and The Mirror Opened. When he’s not writing, he’s an avid painter and musician. He also hosts the Midnight Presentation podcast, which features original stories and musings on the horror of human nature.