rbadac (November 22, 1999)jimrockhill wrote:
> "The Houses of the Russians" disturbs me perhaps more than it does other
people, because there is a deserted beach resort about 10 miles north of here
that I could not help recalling while reading it. Actually this place, with
its dark, secluded, wood-bound location and its semi-circle of stark, white
bungalows raised on stilts, all with names like "Luckyhut", "Killsad",
"Joesjoy" and so on, always seemed not only creepy, but actively malignant. <
He parked the car in the same place he had previously; negotiated the perilous footpath of split and missing timbers down the slope into the depression where the empty vacation bungalows stood on stilts overlooking the beachfront, the thick mass of closely-packed trees crowding in back of them. The mist was rising again, and settled in milky pools here and there, where it didn't swirl in the wake of an occasional passage of breeze from the ocean beyond, lying like a rumbling black blanket just out of reach, with a hem of grey, wood-littered sand.
The bungalows were now alight, Joseph could see, and his mind turned at once to unauthorized revelers occupying the lodges for a nighttime party. He wondered whether he was inclined to oust them all by himself, being quite alone against what appeared to be several, probably kids, probably drunk, and not likely to cooperate, however officially he may present himself. No, better to go back and simply call the police and let them handle it. But he thought he'd have a look first.
He crept beneath the window of the first bungalow, low enough against the slope on the mainland side to peep into, and looked.
They were beating it up, all right, dancing and drinking beer and playing records-- records? Joseph could not believe his eyes. Was this some kind of retro-themed party?
He could hear the music clearly: it was Buddy Holly singing 'Well, All Right'; The kids were wearing knee-length skirts and Levis, and wore their hair in late-Fifties fashions. Joseph had to smile. He was pushing fifty himself, and had a clear memory of the period; though he had been just a bit too young to actively participate, he had often eavesdropped on the parties thrown by his older brother and sister when their parents were away. It was a favorite recollection, and here it was in the flesh, seemingly put on for his benefit alone.
He lost track of time standing there, watching this ersatz tableaux from his past, and though he knew it to be not only contrived but completely accidental, his eyes were full of tears when he finally tore himself away. His mood now was totally changed, and he wasn't going to bust up this shindig after all. He owed them that much at least.
Were they continuing the theme in the next lodge? He had to know. Slipping on the damp leaves, he made his way to the rear window of it.
These lights were dimmer, but still sufficient; inside a cozy fire blazed in the hearth, and two or three couples, still in charmingly outdated garb, sat on couches and conversed animatedly. Their smiles were frequent and unrestrained; Joseph felt embarrassed to be watching them, now even more the voyeur than he had been. So he came away from the window and wondered briefly what he should do.
As harmless as it had appeared, they really weren't supposed to be in the bungalows during off-season. Mr. Purvis had specifically told him they were all vacant, which was why he had turned off the--
That thought brought him up short. Had these people somehow turned the electricity back on? Fun was fun, but now his sense of responsibility was aroused. He would go to the front door this time, and ask them nicely to leave. It wouldn't do to permit this.
When he came around to the front, there was a little girl sitting on the steps. She saw him and grinned, gap-toothed; pretty little thing. Joseph shook his head. He had to do his duty. But before he could approach, the girl ran out to meet him.
Wordlessly she thrust something in his hand and giggled briefly before dashing back into the lodge. Nonplussed, he stood there in surprise for a moment, a faint protest dead in his mouth, then looked down at what he held.
It was a piece of copper, thin as an index card, irregularly oblong with rounded edges, about the size and shape of his thumb's first joint. He laughed aloud when he realized what it was. How many times had he put pennies on the railroad tracks when he was a kid?
You punched a hole in it afterwards with a nail, and wore it for a lucky charm. Joseph fingered it reflectively. He used to have dozens of these. It was all a very long time ago.
He slipped it into his pocket and strode up to the door, trying to put on a face with just the right mixture of kindness and authority, but it wasn't easy after having had his buttons pushed so thoroughly in the space of a few minutes. And if the place had not been so absolutely, completely empty when he pushed the door further ajar, he might even have held it long enough to reassure himself that, in the final analysis, he was become an old man, and the differences between thought and experience might not be so great as they had been.
Nothing more to see. He left the door standing open as it was discovered, and was only partially conscious of the thin edge of copper that bit into his fingers, clenched in his pocket as he stepped heavily through the crackle of fallen twigs and leaves, toward where the last lights still shone through the windows of the third bungalow.
Absurd names they had, the houses. Though they could have been simply numbered for the sake of their transitory identity, they had instead been labeled with these unlikely monikers, as if they'd been fishing boats or racehorses. Why wouldn't someone be sad if they had to kill? It was not a happy occupation. This door was locked, but he had the key.
He remained in here longer, but not much. It was the smell that drove him out finally, more so than the arterial spray patterns on the walls, or the prints left on the blackdamp floorboards, coppery, like a handful of wet pennies. Memory was a funny thing. Just when you thought you had gotten used to it, it emerged unexpectedly, and tore at you with harpy fingers. He may have cried. It *was* a sad thing. No one in his right mind would rent these places ever again. They should all just be torn down, and the grounds left to the encroaching woods, which would have them anyway. The sea could be allowed to wash up onto what was left. It would be the best thing for all concerned.
(from 'An Aspect Of Houses,' in BOB'S YOUR UNCLE: AN ANTHOLOGY OF AICKMAN APPRECIATIONS, Kirkontorni Press, Unilinna, 1999)
oOo
Robert Kunath (November 23, 1999)
rbadac wrote:
>
> > >
> (from 'An Aspect Of Houses,' in BOB'S YOUR UNCLE: AN ANTHOLOGY OF AICKMAN
> APPRECIATIONS, Kirkontorni Press, Unilinna, 1999)Now there's a "want list" title! (And a damn fine vignette, too, I dare say...).
Robert
(wondering if Unilinna is in the same atlas that lists Kadath)oOo
rbadac (November 24, 1999)
> Robert
> (wondering if Unilinna is in the same atlas that lists Kadath)Thanks, Robert ! It better be in Finland, or R. Fordyce is taking liberties. Like that's news.
rbadac
oOo
Jim Rockhill (November 23, 1999)
I am honored to have played such a slight part in inspiring your vignette. The only sounds in the location I described, however, are the wind blowing through the encroaching trees, the lapping of waves and an occasional creaking timber. Music of any kind would be a blessing.
When my wife and I were first together, we stayed in a house on this same lake. We could not see the resort from where we were by day, but reflected moonlight lit up the bungalows like a row of small, crooked teeth. The place never gets any brighter than twilight even at noon. Why anyone would vacation in such a lugubrious location is a mystery.
I have obviously read too much Aickman and Metcalfe.oOo
rbadac (November 24, 1999)
Jim Rockhill wrote:
> I am honored to have played such a slight part in inspiring your
> vignette. The only sounds in the location I described, however, are the
> wind blowing through the encroaching trees, the lapping of waves and an
> occasional creaking timber.AAAAHHHHHHHHHH !!!!!!! Hold a flashlight under your chin, why dontcha???
> Music of any kind would be a blessing.
> When my wife and I were first together, we stayed in a house on
> this same lake. We could not see the resort from where we were by day,
> but reflected moonlight lit up the bungalows like a row of small,
> crooked teeth. The place never gets any brighter than twilight even at
> noon. Why anyone would vacation in such a lugubrious location is a
> mystery.
> I have obviously read too much Aickman and Metcalfe.
Yeesh. I'm beginning to wonder how much fiction is involved here...
rbadac, looking at travel folders of the Carribbean- oh, hell, there's voodoo down there... I think I'll just rent a video and stay home. Hello, Lucky Hut? I want a large pepperoni and mushroom with extra cheese. Breadsticks? Yeah, why the hell not? It'll be cash. All pennies.
...
Whaddya mean you don't deliver to my neighborhood?
oOo
Jim Rockhill (November 25, 1999)
rbadac wrote:
>
> AAAAHHHHHHHHHH !!!!!!! Hold a flashlight under your chin, why
dontcha???Shortly before I posted this message: "(Tap, tap!) Who left this thing on and ran down the batteries again?"
>
Happy Thanksgiving!
I suppose I may have waxed a TRIFLE melodramatic here, but the place does exist, the timbers in those decrepit old buildings do creak and the lake on which it is located is called . . . Magician Lake. If I were fabricating all of this, I would have at least tried to come up with a more subtle name than Magician Lake, which is one of the reasons I had not previously mentioned it.
Actually, the sight of that semicircle of houses across the moonlit lake, if creepy, looks like a row of BABY teeth rather than those of anything more predatory. And . . . once you get out of the woods, there is a pizza place a few blocks away. They deliver to other locations on the lake . . .ooOoo