Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror by Joyce Carol Oates, Nancy Kilpatrick, Caitlin R. Kiernan, Storm Constantine, Molly Tanzer, Lois H. Gresh, Gemma Files, Karen Heuler
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates, Nancy Kilpatrick, Caitlin R. Kiernan, Storm Constantine, Molly Tanzer, Lois H. Gresh, Gemma Files, Karen Heuler
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Pretty Face looked up and he had a startled look like I imagined a deer would have, if I'd ever seen a deer. I saw a porcupine once. It's not quite the same thing, saying someone had a startled look like a porcupine. That's a totally different kind of startled.
One where you get a face full of black and white spines.
“I—” He just sort of sat there. Looking for an escape route, possibly. There would have been an awkward silence. Instead there was just an awkward mumbly indie guitar with whispery vocals.
So, All Pretty Face and No Pretty Brains. I was already spilling over with disappointment. At least the wine was good. What am I saying—the wine was terrible.
“No,” he said.
Terrific. Forward motion on the conversation train. I put down my glass. “Uh-huh.”
“I saw one once.”
I wanted to laugh at him, to mock him before he could mock me, but he had this serious cast to his face, a sweet sort of innocence that made me bite back on whatever scathing retort I was fermenting. “In your dreams?” I said instead.
He laughed. It was a nice sound, all smoky and warm, like the last hour of a good party. “In the Dreaming.”
“In Jarry,” I snapped back, like the word had been sitting curled up on the back of my tongue, just waiting for the moment I would let it free.
“Yes,” he said.
After a few seconds he closed his sketchbook, downed the last of his drink and took my hand. I let him, not because I'm an idiot, but because Jarry had already eaten into my dreams and I desperately wanted to go there.
We walked out into a night that had turned shivery; a cold front blowing in from the ocean. I rubbed my hands along my arms and watched him, watched his breath smoking. He was real. I didn't even know his name. I was drunk. Maybe.
Probably. You should phone Sav , I told myself.
“So,” I said. “You know how to get to Jarry.”
He was fiddling with his jacket zip. It had got caught in the strap of his little flat portfolio bag. “I did once,” he muttered.
“But the old ways are closed.”
“Yes.” He looked up at me, frowning. He was even prettier when he frowned. It gave him the air of a confused lizard. “How do you know?”
I shrugged.
“Because you don't smell like someone who has been to Jarry.”
“I do this thing. It's called bathing.”
“No—” He brought one hand to his face, and covered his right eye. The other one stared at me unblinking. A little creepy, I'll admit. But we were still standing outside the Hole . There were people around. “You look wrong.”
“Nice. I already get that shit from my mother, I don't need it from you.” I turned to stagger back and he caught my arm, gently pulling me to him.
“Not—not like that.” He smiled, shy as a schoolboy on a first date. “Your face is perfect.”
Perfect. I'm an idiot, but it was still nice to hear a little flattery for a change.
“I meant,” he said, “that you don't look like someone who has seen Jarry.” His hand was melting-warm on my cold arm, and just for once, I wanted to hold on to the idea that something about me was worthwhile, even if I knew he was lying. And I wanted to know more. So sue me. “I haven't.” I sighed. “Obviously.”
“Ah.” He lowered his hand, held it out to me. “I'm Sullivan. And I can get you there.”
Pretty Face, Pretty Hands. Long fingers. Elegant. Fingers that could draw the strange, the magical. Of course I shook his hand. “Euphemia,” I said. “Shut up, my parents were weird, you get used to it. Call me Mia if the whole thing is too much.”
“Euphemia.”
“Exactly.”
“It sounds like a drug.”
I laughed. “Oh, hang on, is that what this is? Is Jarry a trip?”
“Yes,” said Sullivan. “The best.” Then he shook his head. “It's not—it's better than drugs. It's marvelous.”
I'm not even going to pretend I wasn't having massive second-thoughts by this point.
“There are still ways into Jarry, there always
Pretty Face looked up and he had a startled look like I imagined a deer would have, if I'd ever seen a deer. I saw a porcupine once. It's not quite the same thing, saying someone had a startled look like a porcupine. That's a totally different kind of startled.
One where you get a face full of black and white spines.
“I—” He just sort of sat there. Looking for an escape route, possibly. There would have been an awkward silence. Instead there was just an awkward mumbly indie guitar with whispery vocals.
So, All Pretty Face and No Pretty Brains. I was already spilling over with disappointment. At least the wine was good. What am I saying—the wine was terrible.
“No,” he said.
Terrific. Forward motion on the conversation train. I put down my glass. “Uh-huh.”
“I saw one once.”
I wanted to laugh at him, to mock him before he could mock me, but he had this serious cast to his face, a sweet sort of innocence that made me bite back on whatever scathing retort I was fermenting. “In your dreams?” I said instead.
He laughed. It was a nice sound, all smoky and warm, like the last hour of a good party. “In the Dreaming.”
“In Jarry,” I snapped back, like the word had been sitting curled up on the back of my tongue, just waiting for the moment I would let it free.
“Yes,” he said.
After a few seconds he closed his sketchbook, downed the last of his drink and took my hand. I let him, not because I'm an idiot, but because Jarry had already eaten into my dreams and I desperately wanted to go there.
We walked out into a night that had turned shivery; a cold front blowing in from the ocean. I rubbed my hands along my arms and watched him, watched his breath smoking. He was real. I didn't even know his name. I was drunk. Maybe.
Probably. You should phone Sav , I told myself.
“So,” I said. “You know how to get to Jarry.”
He was fiddling with his jacket zip. It had got caught in the strap of his little flat portfolio bag. “I did once,” he muttered.
“But the old ways are closed.”
“Yes.” He looked up at me, frowning. He was even prettier when he frowned. It gave him the air of a confused lizard. “How do you know?”
I shrugged.
“Because you don't smell like someone who has been to Jarry.”
“I do this thing. It's called bathing.”
“No—” He brought one hand to his face, and covered his right eye. The other one stared at me unblinking. A little creepy, I'll admit. But we were still standing outside the Hole . There were people around. “You look wrong.”
“Nice. I already get that shit from my mother, I don't need it from you.” I turned to stagger back and he caught my arm, gently pulling me to him.
“Not—not like that.” He smiled, shy as a schoolboy on a first date. “Your face is perfect.”
Perfect. I'm an idiot, but it was still nice to hear a little flattery for a change.
“I meant,” he said, “that you don't look like someone who has seen Jarry.” His hand was melting-warm on my cold arm, and just for once, I wanted to hold on to the idea that something about me was worthwhile, even if I knew he was lying. And I wanted to know more. So sue me. “I haven't.” I sighed. “Obviously.”
“Ah.” He lowered his hand, held it out to me. “I'm Sullivan. And I can get you there.”
Pretty Face, Pretty Hands. Long fingers. Elegant. Fingers that could draw the strange, the magical. Of course I shook his hand. “Euphemia,” I said. “Shut up, my parents were weird, you get used to it. Call me Mia if the whole thing is too much.”
“Euphemia.”
“Exactly.”
“It sounds like a drug.”
I laughed. “Oh, hang on, is that what this is? Is Jarry a trip?”
“Yes,” said Sullivan. “The best.” Then he shook his head. “It's not—it's better than drugs. It's marvelous.”
I'm not even going to pretend I wasn't having massive second-thoughts by this point.
“There are still ways into Jarry, there always
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