Read Online Songs of a Dead Dreamer and Grimscribe by Thomas Ligotti - Free Book Online
Authors: Thomas Ligotti
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yowled in that horribly demonic falsetto of threatened felines. Finally she dashed out of the bathroom, relinquishing her ground for the first time since she was a kitten.
I had been loitering at the other side of the room, a groggy bystander to an unexpected incident. With a large plastic hairbrush gripped in my left hand, I investigated. I gazed down into the same waters. And though at first they seemed clear enough, something soon appeared from within its porcelain burrow. However, it retreated too soon back into the plumbing for me to say what it was. All that remained was a squiggly imprint on my memory. But I could not bring it into mental focus. It was as if I saw the thing and did not see it at the same time. Even so, whatever it may have been engendered a flurry of impressions within me, as of a confused nightmare that leaves behind only a pang of horror upon its dreamer. I wouldnât even bring up this installment in my story if I didnât think it related to another that occurred later on.
This afternoon I began preparing myself for the reading I was to give at the library, the preparation being mostly alcoholic. Iâve never looked forward to this annual ordeal and only put up with it out of a sense of duty, vanity, and other less comprehensible motives. Maybe this is why I welcomed the excuse to skip it last year. And I wanted to skip it this year, too, if only I could have come up with a reason satisfactory to the others involvedâand, more importantly, to myself. Wouldnât want to disappoint the children, would I? Of course not, though heaven only knows why. Children have made me nervous ever since I stopped being one of them. Perhaps this is why I never had any of my ownâadopted any, that isâfor the doctors told me long ago that Iâm about as fertile as the seas of the moon.
The other Alice is the one whoâs really comfortable with kids and kiddish things. How else could she have written
Preston and the Laughing This
or
Preston and the Twitching That
? So when it comes time to do this reading every year, I try to put
her
onstage as much as possible, something thatâs becoming more difficult with the passing years. Oddly enough, itâs my grown-upâs weakness for spirits that allows me to do this most effectively. With each sip of Scotch that passed my lips today I felt more at ease.
The sun was going down in a pumpkin-colored blaze when I arrived at the little one-story library. Some costumed kids were hanging around outside: a werewolf, a black cat with a long curling tail, an extraterrestrial with fewer fingers than humans and more eyes. Coming up the walk was Tinkerbell escorted by a pirate. In spite of myself, I couldnât help smiling at the whole scene. For the first time in quite a while, this pageant of masqueraders brought back memories of my own childhood when my father took me trick-or-treating. (His love of this night was easily as avid as Prestonâs.) Having gotten into the spirit of this eve, I was feeling quite confident as I entered the library and confronted a flock of youngsters. But the spell was maliciously broken when some smart aleck called out from the crowd, shouting: âHey, lookit the mask
sheâs
wearing.â After that I propelled myself down several linoleum hallways in search of a friendly adult face.
Finally I passed the open door of a tidy little room where a group of ladies and the head librarian, Mr. Grosz, were sipping coffee. Mr. Grosz said how nice it was to see me again and introduced me to the moms who were helping out with the party.
âMy Williamâs read all your books,â said a full-figured Mrs. Harley. âI just canât keep him away from them.â Not for lack of trying, I thought, judging by the quietly infuriated tone of her voice. My only reply was a dignified smile.
Mr. Grosz offered me some coffee but I declined: bad for the stomach. Then he wickedly suggested that, as it was
I had been loitering at the other side of the room, a groggy bystander to an unexpected incident. With a large plastic hairbrush gripped in my left hand, I investigated. I gazed down into the same waters. And though at first they seemed clear enough, something soon appeared from within its porcelain burrow. However, it retreated too soon back into the plumbing for me to say what it was. All that remained was a squiggly imprint on my memory. But I could not bring it into mental focus. It was as if I saw the thing and did not see it at the same time. Even so, whatever it may have been engendered a flurry of impressions within me, as of a confused nightmare that leaves behind only a pang of horror upon its dreamer. I wouldnât even bring up this installment in my story if I didnât think it related to another that occurred later on.
This afternoon I began preparing myself for the reading I was to give at the library, the preparation being mostly alcoholic. Iâve never looked forward to this annual ordeal and only put up with it out of a sense of duty, vanity, and other less comprehensible motives. Maybe this is why I welcomed the excuse to skip it last year. And I wanted to skip it this year, too, if only I could have come up with a reason satisfactory to the others involvedâand, more importantly, to myself. Wouldnât want to disappoint the children, would I? Of course not, though heaven only knows why. Children have made me nervous ever since I stopped being one of them. Perhaps this is why I never had any of my ownâadopted any, that isâfor the doctors told me long ago that Iâm about as fertile as the seas of the moon.
The other Alice is the one whoâs really comfortable with kids and kiddish things. How else could she have written
Preston and the Laughing This
or
Preston and the Twitching That
? So when it comes time to do this reading every year, I try to put
her
onstage as much as possible, something thatâs becoming more difficult with the passing years. Oddly enough, itâs my grown-upâs weakness for spirits that allows me to do this most effectively. With each sip of Scotch that passed my lips today I felt more at ease.
The sun was going down in a pumpkin-colored blaze when I arrived at the little one-story library. Some costumed kids were hanging around outside: a werewolf, a black cat with a long curling tail, an extraterrestrial with fewer fingers than humans and more eyes. Coming up the walk was Tinkerbell escorted by a pirate. In spite of myself, I couldnât help smiling at the whole scene. For the first time in quite a while, this pageant of masqueraders brought back memories of my own childhood when my father took me trick-or-treating. (His love of this night was easily as avid as Prestonâs.) Having gotten into the spirit of this eve, I was feeling quite confident as I entered the library and confronted a flock of youngsters. But the spell was maliciously broken when some smart aleck called out from the crowd, shouting: âHey, lookit the mask
sheâs
wearing.â After that I propelled myself down several linoleum hallways in search of a friendly adult face.
Finally I passed the open door of a tidy little room where a group of ladies and the head librarian, Mr. Grosz, were sipping coffee. Mr. Grosz said how nice it was to see me again and introduced me to the moms who were helping out with the party.
âMy Williamâs read all your books,â said a full-figured Mrs. Harley. âI just canât keep him away from them.â Not for lack of trying, I thought, judging by the quietly infuriated tone of her voice. My only reply was a dignified smile.
Mr. Grosz offered me some coffee but I declined: bad for the stomach. Then he wickedly suggested that, as it was
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