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Authors: John Farris
Tags: Horror
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withâ"
"It happens, though. Shhh."
After a while I couldn't choke down any more of Clipper's filth and sat gazing at the fire. Nhora calmly took the book from me and continued to turn the pages, mild as a nun at vespers, until she was done. Then she got up to move around the room, sighing, the diary in her hand.
"Throw it on the logs," I said.
"Not yet. The last entry was just four nights ago. Corrie Billings's older sister, Angela."
Clipper had always been precocious. At the age of ten he'd come to me in a high state of excitement and described at length spying on Boss while Boss enjoyed one of the more comely colored women at Dasharoons. "Flopping crazy on her back like a big frog when a dog plays with it," Clipper said with lubricious enthusiasm. So he'd been very much like Boss in one respect, which I pointed out to Nhora.
"No, Sshamp," Nhora said. "Boss loved, he truly cared about, women. Clipper hated them. That's plain from what he wrote. It wasn't the sex he craved, it was their pain and humiliation."
"What does this prove about Clipper? How does it make him a murderer?"
"It doesn't. But there was a side to him none of us suspected. Sexually he was perverse, driven. A slave of his particular demon. There's a notable omission in his diary."
"You mean Corrie?"
"Not a single word about Corrie."
"All of the older women were identified by a code letter. He may have done the same for Corrie, because of some, uh, as you suggest, perverse form of gallantry."
"I doubt that he ever did more than kiss Corrie goodnight," Nhora said thoughtfully. "Poor Corrie. No way for her to know just what she'd fallen in love with. Fooled like the rest of usâshe was doomed any way you look at it. Oh, and if you were wondering, I'm not in Clipper's diary."
"I didn't think you were," I said, flushing.
"He never so much as looked at me the wrong way."
"We still don't know any more than we knew before. About why he killed." I lay back on the bed, lightheaded, my heartbeat erratic.
"I could make some tea," Nhora said. She was near the hearth. She stooped and threw the opened diary into the flames. Gratefully I closed my eyes.
I must have gone to sleep almost immediately. But I kept rising and falling, as if levitated, from the depths of unconsciousness to a fevered half-awareness of wind, rain, lire and shadow. Awareness of Nhora, coming and going, and watchful beside the bed. Once she had me drink the tea she'd prepared. It was scented lightly with hibiscus, spoiled by a bitter aftertaste.
"Why don't you close your eyes?" Nhora said, a sheltering hand on my forehead. "You're afraid, aren't you? Don't be afraid, Sshamp. I'll take care of you. Close your eyes. Sleep."
But I wasn't comfortable in this room. Instead of sleeping, I dwindled. The ceiling banged up and down like the lid of a box played with by a bored or angry child. Magic threatened. Nhora yawned, revealing perfect back teeth and a moist pink palate. I shuddered. She was too big, and I was too small. Her tongue curled lazily, touched the roof of her mouth. Then, with the yawn fading, Nhora's stealthy, opened eyes caught a gleam of firelight. The green of her eyes slicked to idol gold, dazzling and iridescent. The libidinous diary of my brother smoked in chunks, occasionally flaring as air reached the thickly layered pages.
Nhora stroked me, raising gooseflesh. I dreamed phantasmagorically.
The fire swarmed and was animated. Clipper and his playmate-victims came whooping from the flames that consumed his diary. Antic, nubile, not many of them past childhood, they tricked and flashed like ravenous eels in acts of copulation. I was shamefully aroused by their orgiastic cries.
Other monsters appeared: black men, their bodies calcimined, puckered with meaty bullet holes. They chanted in African tongues. Boss wore Nhora's head like a stopper on his bloodstained shoulders, her pinpoint eyes now hooded, rimmed a dreadful black. Her hair was twisted in strong coils
"It happens, though. Shhh."
After a while I couldn't choke down any more of Clipper's filth and sat gazing at the fire. Nhora calmly took the book from me and continued to turn the pages, mild as a nun at vespers, until she was done. Then she got up to move around the room, sighing, the diary in her hand.
"Throw it on the logs," I said.
"Not yet. The last entry was just four nights ago. Corrie Billings's older sister, Angela."
Clipper had always been precocious. At the age of ten he'd come to me in a high state of excitement and described at length spying on Boss while Boss enjoyed one of the more comely colored women at Dasharoons. "Flopping crazy on her back like a big frog when a dog plays with it," Clipper said with lubricious enthusiasm. So he'd been very much like Boss in one respect, which I pointed out to Nhora.
"No, Sshamp," Nhora said. "Boss loved, he truly cared about, women. Clipper hated them. That's plain from what he wrote. It wasn't the sex he craved, it was their pain and humiliation."
"What does this prove about Clipper? How does it make him a murderer?"
"It doesn't. But there was a side to him none of us suspected. Sexually he was perverse, driven. A slave of his particular demon. There's a notable omission in his diary."
"You mean Corrie?"
"Not a single word about Corrie."
"All of the older women were identified by a code letter. He may have done the same for Corrie, because of some, uh, as you suggest, perverse form of gallantry."
"I doubt that he ever did more than kiss Corrie goodnight," Nhora said thoughtfully. "Poor Corrie. No way for her to know just what she'd fallen in love with. Fooled like the rest of usâshe was doomed any way you look at it. Oh, and if you were wondering, I'm not in Clipper's diary."
"I didn't think you were," I said, flushing.
"He never so much as looked at me the wrong way."
"We still don't know any more than we knew before. About why he killed." I lay back on the bed, lightheaded, my heartbeat erratic.
"I could make some tea," Nhora said. She was near the hearth. She stooped and threw the opened diary into the flames. Gratefully I closed my eyes.
I must have gone to sleep almost immediately. But I kept rising and falling, as if levitated, from the depths of unconsciousness to a fevered half-awareness of wind, rain, lire and shadow. Awareness of Nhora, coming and going, and watchful beside the bed. Once she had me drink the tea she'd prepared. It was scented lightly with hibiscus, spoiled by a bitter aftertaste.
"Why don't you close your eyes?" Nhora said, a sheltering hand on my forehead. "You're afraid, aren't you? Don't be afraid, Sshamp. I'll take care of you. Close your eyes. Sleep."
But I wasn't comfortable in this room. Instead of sleeping, I dwindled. The ceiling banged up and down like the lid of a box played with by a bored or angry child. Magic threatened. Nhora yawned, revealing perfect back teeth and a moist pink palate. I shuddered. She was too big, and I was too small. Her tongue curled lazily, touched the roof of her mouth. Then, with the yawn fading, Nhora's stealthy, opened eyes caught a gleam of firelight. The green of her eyes slicked to idol gold, dazzling and iridescent. The libidinous diary of my brother smoked in chunks, occasionally flaring as air reached the thickly layered pages.
Nhora stroked me, raising gooseflesh. I dreamed phantasmagorically.
The fire swarmed and was animated. Clipper and his playmate-victims came whooping from the flames that consumed his diary. Antic, nubile, not many of them past childhood, they tricked and flashed like ravenous eels in acts of copulation. I was shamefully aroused by their orgiastic cries.
Other monsters appeared: black men, their bodies calcimined, puckered with meaty bullet holes. They chanted in African tongues. Boss wore Nhora's head like a stopper on his bloodstained shoulders, her pinpoint eyes now hooded, rimmed a dreadful black. Her hair was twisted in strong coils
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