printing or in the photography distorted her features, though--her lower face appeared bulged, lips almost a perfect circle topped by an upcurved, flattened nose and slits for eyes.
Clem realized that he had been, for the last few moments, hearing a dribbling sound, a low and burbling trickle. He placed the book down on the cushion next to him and stood. As he approached the stairs, he saw that a thin stream of water was dribbling down the steps and puddling in the cracks and crevices in the concrete floor. It smelled dank, brackish. Then, suddenly, the entire stairway was flooded with bright light. Wincing, Clem squinted, hand at his brow, up the stairs. They were wet and reflected the light back at him. He could make out a thin black, jagged shadow culminating three steps from the floor in the shape of an elongated jutting pipe and an upside down hat. He looked at the top of the stairs, but all he could see was a slender silhouette framed in blinding light. "There's a HOLE in the BUCKET," it sang out in a gurgling, insinuating voice, "Dear LIZA, dear LIZA."
Clem knew what was coming next, but before he could turn, a high-pitched bubbling voice gurgled directly behind him. "Well FIX it, dear HENRY, dear HENRY, dear HENRY!"
Clem wheeled around and fell back against the stairs. It was the thin woman from the Local History section--it was Anne Gare. He now knew there had been no flaw in the printing, no flaw in the photograph. She opened her mouth as if to speak, revealing wide, flat yellow teeth, and then her jaw appeared to unhinge, her chin falling slack against her chest. Water poured from her grotesque mouth in a reeking rush, and behind Clem more water poured down the stairs in seething, stinking, roiling waves. The foul, bubbling water engulfed Clem and engulfed Anne Gare, in an instant filling the small room and climbing the stairs like a living thing. Clem was pulled from his feet. He held his breath for as long as he could. Then he let go, wrenching open his mouth in the vain lust for air, and the water filled his throat and lungs like a fist opening inside his chest. His body wrenched once, twice, then hung limply, bubbles rising from his slack mouth.
In the cloudy water, in the rippling bluish lamplight, Clem and Anne Gare danced a slow and majestic dance, her blouse twirling languidly at her thighs, his overcoat forming a cape that fluttered dreamily above him. Floating, floating, they circled each other among the books that rose from the floor and the shelves and fluttered about them like winged things.
the ballad of nathan whiteshirt
NATHAN WHITESHIRT remained unmarried for the whole of his fifty years. He lived in a two story house with a detectable tilt. Cats were frequently seen in the windows. He kept an unknown number.
NATHAN WHITESHIRT was thin, tall but stooped, his eyes bold and colorless under long, low brows. He was often the subject of rumors, particularly, but not exclusively, among the children of the town.
William Chesterfield, 8, claimed he saw NATHAN WHITESHIRT sitting high in a treetop, weeping.
Cynthia Blamefoot, 10, said she hears NATHAN WHITESHIRT singing obscene songs outside her window at night.
Robert Rutherford, 11, said that he saw NATHAN WHITESHIRT attack a dog and bite into its belly until a great flood of blood sprayed forth.
Michael Stark, 38, swears he saw NATHAN WHITESHIRT climb the venerable churchtower like a nimble spider.
Richard Wren, 72, won't speak aloud the name of NATHAN WHITESHIRT for fear NATHAN WHITESHIRT will murder his wife.
Stanley N. Toothburgle, 89, claims that NATHAN WHITESHIRT humiliates him by pulling obscenely at his pajamas when he makes his slow and painful way down the long hall for a piss at night.
It was rumored that before Winnifred Williston was found deceased in her bathroom, she had seen NATHAN WHITESHIRT when she pulled back the curtain to enter the bath.
When Father Ezekiel Shineface murdered a
Clem realized that he had been, for the last few moments, hearing a dribbling sound, a low and burbling trickle. He placed the book down on the cushion next to him and stood. As he approached the stairs, he saw that a thin stream of water was dribbling down the steps and puddling in the cracks and crevices in the concrete floor. It smelled dank, brackish. Then, suddenly, the entire stairway was flooded with bright light. Wincing, Clem squinted, hand at his brow, up the stairs. They were wet and reflected the light back at him. He could make out a thin black, jagged shadow culminating three steps from the floor in the shape of an elongated jutting pipe and an upside down hat. He looked at the top of the stairs, but all he could see was a slender silhouette framed in blinding light. "There's a HOLE in the BUCKET," it sang out in a gurgling, insinuating voice, "Dear LIZA, dear LIZA."
Clem knew what was coming next, but before he could turn, a high-pitched bubbling voice gurgled directly behind him. "Well FIX it, dear HENRY, dear HENRY, dear HENRY!"
Clem wheeled around and fell back against the stairs. It was the thin woman from the Local History section--it was Anne Gare. He now knew there had been no flaw in the printing, no flaw in the photograph. She opened her mouth as if to speak, revealing wide, flat yellow teeth, and then her jaw appeared to unhinge, her chin falling slack against her chest. Water poured from her grotesque mouth in a reeking rush, and behind Clem more water poured down the stairs in seething, stinking, roiling waves. The foul, bubbling water engulfed Clem and engulfed Anne Gare, in an instant filling the small room and climbing the stairs like a living thing. Clem was pulled from his feet. He held his breath for as long as he could. Then he let go, wrenching open his mouth in the vain lust for air, and the water filled his throat and lungs like a fist opening inside his chest. His body wrenched once, twice, then hung limply, bubbles rising from his slack mouth.
In the cloudy water, in the rippling bluish lamplight, Clem and Anne Gare danced a slow and majestic dance, her blouse twirling languidly at her thighs, his overcoat forming a cape that fluttered dreamily above him. Floating, floating, they circled each other among the books that rose from the floor and the shelves and fluttered about them like winged things.
the ballad of nathan whiteshirt
NATHAN WHITESHIRT remained unmarried for the whole of his fifty years. He lived in a two story house with a detectable tilt. Cats were frequently seen in the windows. He kept an unknown number.
NATHAN WHITESHIRT was thin, tall but stooped, his eyes bold and colorless under long, low brows. He was often the subject of rumors, particularly, but not exclusively, among the children of the town.
William Chesterfield, 8, claimed he saw NATHAN WHITESHIRT sitting high in a treetop, weeping.
Cynthia Blamefoot, 10, said she hears NATHAN WHITESHIRT singing obscene songs outside her window at night.
Robert Rutherford, 11, said that he saw NATHAN WHITESHIRT attack a dog and bite into its belly until a great flood of blood sprayed forth.
Michael Stark, 38, swears he saw NATHAN WHITESHIRT climb the venerable churchtower like a nimble spider.
Richard Wren, 72, won't speak aloud the name of NATHAN WHITESHIRT for fear NATHAN WHITESHIRT will murder his wife.
Stanley N. Toothburgle, 89, claims that NATHAN WHITESHIRT humiliates him by pulling obscenely at his pajamas when he makes his slow and painful way down the long hall for a piss at night.
It was rumored that before Winnifred Williston was found deceased in her bathroom, she had seen NATHAN WHITESHIRT when she pulled back the curtain to enter the bath.
When Father Ezekiel Shineface murdered a
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