When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (popular books to read txt) đ
- Author: G. Wells Taylor
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Those first days had been strange. I had pretty much awakened, fully sentient, whole without a past, floating over Tommyâs head. I could remember the dizzying moments as I flinched mentallyâexpecting a fall. The following minutes were of extreme angst as I began to realize the unexplainable nature of my presence. I knew who I was, at least what I did, but I did not have a name. I had a sense of âIâ, but I had no body. I knew that I existed, but I didnât know where I came from. This was incredibly depressing for a few weeksâI had begun to think I was in hell, following the clown from toilet to liquor store to toiletâthen, the first possession happened. One day, I was floating over Tommy like a grumpy little rain cloudâhe was cleaning his sinuses with his pinky fingerâwhen he made a frantic phone call and ordered the car around front. We drove a few blocks before he told Elmo to stop the car and let him out.
I remember Tommy running up a flight of steps and into a hotel very much like the MoroccoâI remember the terrifying speed with which I was impelled after him. He passed up another flight of steps and then along a hallway to a door. It was openâcigarette smoke hung in the airâjazz music squawked sour in my ears. A heavy-set woman leaned against the frame with exaggerated and somewhat elephantine coquettishness. She batted large fake eyelashes at the clown. The dialogue was depressingly average.
âHow are you, big boy?â She ran her hands over her hips. The trip must have tired them out because they hung limp at her sides afterwards.
âHow is my little mama?â Tommy had said as he reached out and fondled her breasts.
âOoh,â she cooed, pushing back against his hands. âOoh!â
Tommy shoved her into the room onto a bed about a foot wide. I think it was an army cot. I floated overhead watching as he clumsily disrobed her and then mounted. There must be something innately voyeuristic about the human species, because I had to admit that floating overhead while all this was going on was very exciting for meâeven though I had no body of my own. Perhaps it excited latent memories. I donât know. I just remembered the moment I made the startling realization that I could see through Tommyâs skull. Inside was some sort of electrical activity that drew me. The actual transition happened fast. The next thing I knew, I was lying over this womanâs heaving body huffing and panting. I could remember the strangeness of the physical sensations: the half-pain, half-pleasure of the spent orgasm, the cloying musk of my partner, the little nervous aftershocks I was receiving, and even the sad, dead feeling of her over-conditioned hair. I went from that room into a binge of sensation, the Epicurean at large. I became a wandering Hedonist avatar, drunk on the tangible. I ended up in Vicetown with both my wallet and my seminal vesicles empty; or, rather both Tommyâs respectively.
âThis h-here, Boss?â Elmo raised a thin arm to a road sign that said Sea Heights, and brought me from my reverie.
âLook for 333,â I said and then mused gloomily.
Alan Cotton must have been doing a booming business selling cosmetics to the dead, because 333 Sea Heights was a sprawling white ranch house that perched incongruously on a tall narrow shelf of rock overlooking the sea. Incongruous, because the design of the building demanded acres of flat farmland around it, not a deep precipitous fall into the pounding surf on one side and a thick apple orchard on the other. Something with a crenellated tower would have fit the location better, and perhaps a low brownstone carriage houseâeven a second floor. As we drew near, I realized that what it lacked in height it made up for in width. Cottonâs house must have been half a mile long. I pointed to a guesthouse, murmured something about guests then pointed to another. Cotton had done well.
We pulled up to the front. An ornately gardened walkway led to a tall oak front door. A monstrous rosebush grew on either side in wood chips. The drizzle had tapered down a little as we pulled to a stop. I slipped my gun into the glove compartment, smiled at Elmo, and then climbed from the car. âCome on, Fatso.â I sniffed the breezeâsalty with a faint aroma of fish. What a strange yet refreshing breeze, I thought.
Elmo busily straightened his suitâan interesting houndâs-tooth number with dark slacksâthen ran a comb through his thin hair. Poor bastard, I thought. Elmo had class; it was obvious. To have a boss that clomped around in army boots and greasepaint must have horrified him. But, he never complained. I walked up to the front door, rang the bell, a second passed and it opened.
I could tell from the first glimpse that he was the butler. The jaundiced complexion and permanent sneer on the fellow behind the door also told me he was a snob. His eyes had an unfeeling metallic gleam. His tuxedo was covered in minute black and white checks, with a topcoat that stopped at the waist.
âIâm sorry,â he hissed. âWe do not accept solicitations.â
âOh good,â I said. âBecause I didnât bring any.â
âWell, sir,â he continued, squeezing his eyes at me. âIf you have business here, I suggest you use the servantâs entrance and speak with the house manager.â
I smiled, clenched my fists, and then smiled again. âIâm here to see Mrs. Cotton. I suggest you fulfill your job specs, and see to our comfortâŠâ
âNow, Iâve had enoughâŠâ
âAm I wrong,â I cut him off. âOr is one of us here, a servant.â I glared at him. âIâm Wildclown, a detective. I have an appointment with Mrs. Cotton.â I held up my license.
His eyebrows jumped to the top of his head when he looked at it, and then fell to a serious line over his eyes. âMr. Wildclown, of course,â his voice held a minute inflection of professional remorse. âPlease come in.â He swung the door back to reveal a long oak-paneled hallway that stretched away from us in three directions. Elmo and I entered.
The butler gestured to a spread of leather chairs. âHere gentlemen. If you would please wait while I announce your arrival.â
âThank you.â I smiled. Everybody was happy again. I noticed the butler took the seaward hall. His form became a bending rapier of shadow against the glare of polished wood.
I looked at Elmo. âNice place.â
âLike a shit house in heaven.â I noticed Elmoâs eyes searching over the lavish carving on the pillars and roof beams.
âYes, keep an eye peeled for Apostles.â A sudden tock-tock-tock alerted me as a distant form appeared in the glare of the hall. The strangest thing about Mrs. Cotton was the fact that her perfume reached me a full minute before she did. Violets. Mrs. Cotton had somehow managed to make the scent aggressive. The second thing I noticed about her was the look of utter disbelief on her smooth features. Her long face was framed in platinum hair, and her body, to be kind, was thin. Mrs. Cotton in her expensive shimmery dress looked like a chicken-wing wrapped in silk.
âIs this some kind of a joke?â She stopped a good ten feet from us. Her voice honked, goose-like, from her long neck. I winced when the light from the hallway cast her body into sharp relief against the fabric of her dress. I was reminded of coat hangers.
âNo, Mrs. Cotton.â I climbed to my feet beside Elmo. âIâm Wildclown, a private detective. This is my partner, Elmo.â He bowed nervously as though he had met the Virgin herself. âAs I told you earlier on the phone, Iâm working on a case. There was a murder that took place at the Morocco Hotel the same night that your husband met with misfortune. There may be a connection.â
Her eyes narrowedâlooked me up and down. âThis isnât a joke.â
âNo, Mrs. Cotton. Iâm here to ask you some very serious questions.â
âAnd the makeup?â
I restrained Tommy. âPart of a disguise. Investigating murder can be a dangerous business.â I gave her my âI love dangerâ smile.
âI see.â Her expression told me she wasnât convinced. Her big eyes gave me the twice over. âHas the world gone mad thenâŠâ She shook her head, then tried a gracious smile. âDo come in for a drink. Excuse me if I ask your partner to wait here.â She turned away and clattered down the hall she had just come up.
I turned to Elmo. âThat okay with you, Fatso?â
âThatâs cool, Boss. This is g-good enough for me.â
I left him sitting on the couch, a beatific smile on his face as he studied the carvings overhead.
I wrestled gravity. First I gripped my knees, found I sank too farâpulled myself forward again, locked wrists around them. I wanted a cigarette, couldnât smoke one this way so I let go and sprawled back into the overstuffed pillows on the couch. I tried to make the maneuver look natural so I dug into one of my pockets and produced a cigarette. I popped it into my mouth and then gazed across at the distant ashtray that taunted me from a heavy marble coffee table. I struggled out of the couch, and sat on the arm.
I noticed Mrs. Cotton had been watching me. I smiled, offered a cigarette that she declined, and then lit my own. Two great triangular windows swept up the wall of the living room that faced the coast. They formed the broad wings of a sea bird that was worked into the stucco. Through these wings, I could see the world outside, gray and blurry in the wind-blown rain. Around me sprawled a number of similar man-eating couches and divans. Mrs. Cotton leaned against a mauve grand piano. We were waiting for our drinks. Neither of us had said anything for the last few minutes. The butler returned. I welcomed the warm presence of the scotch. Mrs. Cotton sipped a martini. The living room was kept well lit by many ceiling lamps. I could see Mrs. Cotton better in this light.
She must have been pushing fifty before the Change, and the end of aging. She had fairly smooth skin, flawed by a slight bagginess over the cheekbones. It gave her eyes a protuberant, fish-like quality.
âI suppose youâre through sizing me up,â she said coolly, using the paperback mystery jargon.
âNice place you have here.â I walked over, flicked my cigarette at the ashtray, and then looked around and around. There was a picture on a side table of a man with a kind face and bulbous nose. He was dark haired, and dark eyed. Heavy rimmed glasses held up his thick lenses. âThis Mr. Cotton?â
A slight blush washed behind her features. âHe hated that picture.â
I stifled an urge to agree with him. âBeen here long?â
âAlan purchased the house for us ten years agoâjust after his promotion. It used to belong to a movie director.â
âWhat was the promotion to? Head of the sales team?â I stood about ten feet from her; drink in my left hand, cigarette in
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