and I can’t see through the glass. I don’t know if the door is locked, and I don’t give a damn. I raise my hammer and smash the glass. The first blow knocks out enough glass for me to reach through and unlock the door, but I keep swinging until there’s enough room for me to get through. My right pants leg snags on my way in, and I feel a sharp pain as the skin beneath is cut. I nick the back of my hand as well, and it hurts so bad I nearly drop the butcher knife. But I focus past the pain, shove my way through the blinds, and enter the Spindlekin’s lair. Blood drips from my wounded hand onto the carpet, but I ignore it. The reptile house stink is so strong in here that I nearly gag, and the air feels greasy and heavy as it goes in my mouth and settles in my lungs. I wonder if the stench comes from the Spindlekin themselves, or if they’ve somehow altered the atmosphere in their apartment to suit them better, to make their temporary environment as alien as they are.
Just as I saw the night I spied on them, their apartment is bereft of any furnishings, but the walls and ceiling are now covered with brownish-black smears which I hope aren’t made from fecal matter. The smears resemble distorted letters from a language I don’t recognize, the same series of letters over and over, written both large and small. I don’t need a translation, for I can guess what the letters spell out: Desiderata.
The apartment’s layout is a mirror image of my own, and I start toward the bedroom. I still hear muffled grunting, but it doesn’t seem as loud as it did downstairs. A second later, I understand why. A player has left the game. Mr. Mustache comes charging out of the bedroom and down the short hallway toward me. He’s naked, and his erect penis bobbles like some absurd toy as he runs. I expect his organ to be monstrous somehow, grotesquely large or twisted into some malformed shape. But it looks almost disappointingly normal, as does the rest of his body. No scales, no bony ridges, nothing strange at all, and for an instant I fear I’ve imagined the Spindlekin’s alieness, that for all their oddity, they’re merely human.
Mr. Mustache’s features are contorted in a mask of rage, and the lower half of his face is coated with a thick viscous liquid, his mustache matted down and soaked with it. There’s so much of the stuff that it drips from his face in ropey strands like dog drool. I expect him to rush me, but I’m surprised when he stops several feet from me and opens his mouth wide. Too wide, his lower jaw stretching and lowering until it reaches his chest. The burning smell of overheating electronics wafts forth from his open maw, and I remember smelling the same thing the first time I encountered him, on the day the Spindlekin moved in.
He takes a deep breath and a deafening cacophony of noise erupts from his distended mouth. It’s the same sound I heard before, a combination of crashing metals, high-pitched whine, and deep, pulsing thrum. Pain explodes in my head, as if white-hot pokers have been jammed into my ears, the blazing metal searing through my brain, gray matter sizzling as they penetrate deeper. Waves of solid sound continue crashing into me. It hurts so much that I can’t think, can’t remember my own name, am not even aware that I’m a man called Richard. My entire universe is Noise and Pain, nothing more.
My mind may have been momentarily turned to mush, but there’s nothing wrong with my body, and it intends to defend itself. My right arm swings the hammer at Mr. Mustache’s jaw with all the strength it can muster, and metal strikes flesh with a deeply satisfying thud. Skin tears, bone shatters, and Mr. Mustache’s jaw becomes partially detached and hangs at a sickening angle. Blood gushes—a bright, almost glowing red, and sweet-smelling, like roses coated with molasses. The worst of the noise cuts off, and only a crackling, sputtering sound remains. Sparks leap forth from the man’s
Just as I saw the night I spied on them, their apartment is bereft of any furnishings, but the walls and ceiling are now covered with brownish-black smears which I hope aren’t made from fecal matter. The smears resemble distorted letters from a language I don’t recognize, the same series of letters over and over, written both large and small. I don’t need a translation, for I can guess what the letters spell out: Desiderata.
The apartment’s layout is a mirror image of my own, and I start toward the bedroom. I still hear muffled grunting, but it doesn’t seem as loud as it did downstairs. A second later, I understand why. A player has left the game. Mr. Mustache comes charging out of the bedroom and down the short hallway toward me. He’s naked, and his erect penis bobbles like some absurd toy as he runs. I expect his organ to be monstrous somehow, grotesquely large or twisted into some malformed shape. But it looks almost disappointingly normal, as does the rest of his body. No scales, no bony ridges, nothing strange at all, and for an instant I fear I’ve imagined the Spindlekin’s alieness, that for all their oddity, they’re merely human.
Mr. Mustache’s features are contorted in a mask of rage, and the lower half of his face is coated with a thick viscous liquid, his mustache matted down and soaked with it. There’s so much of the stuff that it drips from his face in ropey strands like dog drool. I expect him to rush me, but I’m surprised when he stops several feet from me and opens his mouth wide. Too wide, his lower jaw stretching and lowering until it reaches his chest. The burning smell of overheating electronics wafts forth from his open maw, and I remember smelling the same thing the first time I encountered him, on the day the Spindlekin moved in.
He takes a deep breath and a deafening cacophony of noise erupts from his distended mouth. It’s the same sound I heard before, a combination of crashing metals, high-pitched whine, and deep, pulsing thrum. Pain explodes in my head, as if white-hot pokers have been jammed into my ears, the blazing metal searing through my brain, gray matter sizzling as they penetrate deeper. Waves of solid sound continue crashing into me. It hurts so much that I can’t think, can’t remember my own name, am not even aware that I’m a man called Richard. My entire universe is Noise and Pain, nothing more.
My mind may have been momentarily turned to mush, but there’s nothing wrong with my body, and it intends to defend itself. My right arm swings the hammer at Mr. Mustache’s jaw with all the strength it can muster, and metal strikes flesh with a deeply satisfying thud. Skin tears, bone shatters, and Mr. Mustache’s jaw becomes partially detached and hangs at a sickening angle. Blood gushes—a bright, almost glowing red, and sweet-smelling, like roses coated with molasses. The worst of the noise cuts off, and only a crackling, sputtering sound remains. Sparks leap forth from the man’s
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