The moonlight descended on the east side of the Wagner Tower like an ancestral bone dust. The ectoplasm of a vague awareness crossed a tenant’s mind seeking for oblivion: finally, the dull blows coming from God knows what remote corner of the old building had decided to quit and he would have slept. However, between the seventy-fifth and seventy-fourth floor, a particularly fine ear could have still seized an intermittent, stifled counterpoint of voices.
"I feel that this unusual condition is helping us bring out some interesting perspectives, Mendo." In breaking the silence, the psychotherapist's voice had soon lost its initial momentum.
"I want you to know that this time won’t be billed, go ahead if you feel like it." She tried to assume a playful expression. Hidden underneath her short suit jacket, Dr. Wallace's fingers were nervously playing with a fluorescent orange rubber bracelet.
"No-one is ever suspended, not even now with seventy-four floors of nothing underfoot..."
"Well, this is certainly a positive observation..."
"Shut up, you don’t know a shit." An almost calm remark, pronounced with a firmness that hit Dr. Wallace like a bucket of frozen water.
"Have you ever thought, doctor," Mendo continued, sharply spelling out his last word, "that the fear of emptiness, the horror vacui as they defined it in the Middle Ages, is nothing but the unconscious and desperate attempt to look away from the ultimate truth?"
Since the elevator had blocked its descent, the patient had confined himself to a corner on the opposite side of the entrance. His left leg was now dancing grotesquely, animated like it had a life of its own and in contrast with the cadaveric stiffness of his other body parts.
"I never thought of that." Dr. Wallace wisely responded in brief, observing for the umpteenth time the assistance number carved on the elevator control panel.
"Mmmm...” A growing moan on the other side of the narrow cabin.
The doctor instinctively thought of her daughter that night, when the wind had hit the fixtures of the old house in the mountains so intensely that it produced an endless banshee howl. The little girl had made a sound of compressed horror, just like that.
If only she had known, she would have never asked Mr. Anatoliy “Mendoza” Volkov, an extraordinarily subtle personality, to follow her downstairs after that emergency therapy session in her office. On the other hand, he was one of her first and most challenging patients. Furthermore, he used to pay awesomely.
"Because the void swarms." Now his eyes were on the doctor, sunken out and bugging out at the same time.
"Soon they'll free us, do you think you'll keep writing that song you were talking about?" Dr. Wallace ventured. She realized that the silk shirt was soaking with her acrid sweat.
"It's the Yellow King's dominion, he comes from the void, it's him who made me do those things. I did not want to." His whine ripped open in a sinister vocal of terror.
"Mendo .." She did not know what to add. Now the doctor's hand, behind her sweating back, was pressing the assistance button convulsively.
His wide open eyes. They had stopped staring at her and now they were pointing up, right behind her shoulders.
"Mendo, what's up?"
"The Yellow King. He's here."
Photo by me
Evacuate the Horror
[This is my ending of the story.]
"Do you remember when we first met Mendo, and I told you that he looked like a poser?"
Machete's question lingered in the cloud of bluish smoke that infested the dim room.
"It was at the Rebellion Festival, I think ..."
Tres-Culos's answer was uncertain, probably because he was trying to inhale from five of his body orifices at the same time.
"Yes... he didn’t convince me. He said he was a punk, but he looked fresh from college... he read a lot of stuff, like H. P. Lovecraft, Nit... Niets... Nietzk... that philosopher with big mustache."
Machete paused and looked at the handle of the guitar, as if it could help him express the perplexity he felt inside. In fact, after a few moments, he played an approximate D7dim chord.
The vast chest of Tìo Billy began to shake inside the rumpled leather jacket in a silent laugh:
"Yes... he wanted to listen to the rants of John Cooper Clarke, or maybe Attila the Stockbrocker, but I had to scrape him off the ground in the Crass mosh pit! What a wuss!"
"Yet, the boy knew how to do it with words... well, at least more than the three of us."
"He convinced us to play practically everywhere. Without him we would still blazing up in your aunt's garage!"
An embarrassed silence descended as the three tried not to look at each other, which was easy enough since they wore dark glasses and the smoke in the garage could be cut with a knife.
"Anyway, I was fine even with just three holes..." Tres finally mumbled.
"It was still a douche move, let's face it" Machete blurted out with a G#. "He said he needed inspiration for the new song."
"You didn’t see him on the roof, hugging the chimney that night. He was screaming things like... wait... what was it like? Song of my soul, my voice is dead, die thou, unsung, as tears unshed shall be dry and die in lost Carcosa."
"... Cool!" Tres exhaled.
"Yes, but calling social services was a cheap shot. Now he’s forced to go every day by the shrink, and maybe the fault is of the mix that you two made him take! "
"You say? He has always been a bit weak, in fact, and had not yet completely sobered up of the acid müesli... "
Tres chuckled at the pleasant memory of the fasnacht gig.
Billy remained thoughtful for a moment. Machete urged him with a progression of IV and V on the tonic produced by the Tres farts. Billy expressed resistance by drumming his fingers in a 16th pattern.
"Oh, fuck it! All right let's get him back" he finally gave up, grabbing the Chevy keys and lifting the garage door.
On their way to the Wagner Tower they were overtaken by a police car and a firetruck with sirens on.
"Shit!" The three exclaimed in chorus.
This is my entry for the week #26 of the awesome contest held by @f3nix: Finish the Story and earn Steem Basic Income Shares (and now, earn some STEEM too).
I’m sorry, but I had to overthrow the weird-tales, horror mood and put out some comedy ending, because @f3nix had the unfortunate idea of using once again the character of “Mendo” Mendoza, the unlikely punk band front man, and I got a lot of zany material that gushes out only at the thought of the Tortillas… So, that’s all, folks!
Click the banner below for more informations on the Finish the Story contest:
The house of all the Freewriters!
Follow the Bananafish, follow its trail!