Encounters with Enoch Coffin

  ENCOUNTERS WITH ENOCH COFFIN

  by W.H. Pugmire & Jeffrey Thomas

  This illustrated eBook edition published 2013

  by Dark Regions Press as part of Dark Regions Digital

  http://www.darkregions.com

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2013 by W.H.Pugmire & Jeffrey Thomas

  Dedication

  Wilum dedicates this book to his magnificent friend, J. D. Worthington.

  Jeffrey dedicates this book to his late father, the artist Robert Thomas.

  Table of Contents

  Ye Unkempt Thing

  Matter of Truth and Death

  Beneath Arkham

  Spectral Evidence

  They Smell of Thunder

  Mystic Articulation

  Every Exquisite Thing

  Impossible Color

  Ecstasy in Aberration

  Shadow Puppets

  Fearless Symmetry

  Unto the Child of Woman

  Ye Unkempt Thing

  I.

  I met my friend in front of the large green door of the Providence Art Club on Thomas Street, and she led me into the building and to its spacious exhibition room, where a new showing was being set up.

  “We’re just waiting for my other two acquaintances who will be joining us,” said Candice. “They should be here – oh, they’ve arrived!”

  I turned and greeted the rather ravishing black woman and her tall, handsome companion. “Do you two know each other?”

  The black woman said, “No, we have just met out front. But I am acquainted with the work and reputation of this artist.” The fellow stooped slightly in response and then winked at me, and I sensed that he might be a bit of a rogue. But as he was a friend of a friend, I would suspend judgment until I knew him better.

  The woman, whose tight yellow dress was really too low-cut and exposed her breasts rather alarmingly, held out a hand, which I took timidly. “And you are the Reverend Henry St. Clair, author of Midnight Din and Other Weird Stories?”

  I confessed that I was. The artist, as he was referred to, introduced himself, and then Candice bade us follow her out of the building and down the inclined street to number 7, the Fleur-de-Lys Building, which I was especially interested in investigating, as an ancestor of mine had had a small studio there from 1930 until his suicide in 1951. We stopped to admire the fantastic façade of the old building, with its queer design and gargoyles and small paned windows, and then we were let inside. I loved everything about it, its delicious evocation of the past, the stairways and antique paneled doors. One spacious room was crowded with work tables and various paintings, mostly unframed, leaning here and there or hung carelessly on walls. We then followed our hostess to the upper regions and into smaller rooms, and I was certain that I recognized one of them from family photos of my poor deceased relation. As I entered the room, I fancied that the atmosphere subtly chilled, and I hugged myself protectively while the beauteous black woman offered me her strange smile.

  “The past is alive here, is it not? One can feel it on this air breathed in and see it reflected on the windows where modern light is oddly muted.” Her words bewildered me, as they seemed meant to have significance especially for me – which was absurd, of course; none of these people knew of my family’s past relationship with the building; it was not something I confided to others, nor had I expressed its story in any of my fiction. I watched as the dark woman stepped to a windowsill that was half in shadow and upon which a cluster of dust had settled. I watched, as she bent to that dust and shadow, pursed her lips, and exhaled. Her eyes, as I watched the woman’s face, darkened, as if suddenly overcast with storm clouds. The afternoon light dimmed on the other side of the room so that we stood in dusky gloom, but my attention was caught by the movement of the dust onto which the woman had blown – that dust that lifted and shaped itself weirdly as it seemed to conjoin with coils of shadow that rose with it. I watched the pygmy shape cavort in its corner on the sill, as if it were engaged in crazy dancing. And then the sun came out from behind clouds and light spilled into the room once more, and where I had imagined I had seen a fantastic shape there was nothing but some few particles of dust that fell so as to gather on the floor. I glanced at the Negress as she reached into the black leather bag that hung from its long two handles that rested on the woman’s shoulder. She removed a white cloth and dabbed at her moist mouth.

  We were shown other sections of the building for another half hour, and then returned to the steep hilly street, where we bade Candice goodbye and climbed up to Benefit Street. “There’s a great sandwich shop a few blocks down,” the artist chimed. “My treat, if y’all are hungry. I have a hankering to visit the churchyard at St. John’s, where Poe used to court Sarah Helen Whitman, or so legend says. You two interested?”

  I was rather hungry.

  “I have no appetite,” the woman informed us, “but a visit to the churchyard would enchant me. I’m Marceline Dubois, of Sesqua Valley. You’re from Florida, yes?” I replied that I was. “Then New England must seem almost a foreign land, yes? Such richness of history, such sensation of past things.”

  I turned to the artist. “And you?”

  “Boston, so this is just like home, creepy burying grounds and all. Come on, I’m famished. This sandwich joint is good. I’m staying at an old bed-and-breakfast inn near it and had the best corned beef sandwich ever last night.”

  A ten-minute stroll took us to the café, and their corned beef sandwich was quite excellent. We walked, we gents, with Miss Dubois between us as we chomped on our food and sipped from our bottled juices. Eventually we came to the steps that took us to the long winding brick pathway that led into the hidden churchyard. We had our old cemeteries in Florida, dating to the early 1800s, but there was certainly a different feel to the one we entered at that moment. The walkway took us toward the back of the venerable church, to a spot of land where we approached some few tabletop tombs that were entirely black with age. The artist leaped onto one of the slabs and danced irreverently.

  “You’re a merry fellow, Mr. Coffin,” the black woman addressed him. “Would you court a woman in such a place?”

  He stopped his silly capering and looked around. “I’d bring her here on a moody moonlit night and tell her such a ghastly tale that she would flee in horror, that would be fun.”

  “I fear you are not a romantic soul, Mr. Coffin,” the woman scolded.

  “I’m a beast, m’lady,” he rejoined, bowing to her and then leaping off the opposite side of the tomb, toward the church. “Pah, what the hell is this?” We walked to where he stood and saw the curious pile of soiled clothing and bits of bone and other less recognizable debris that lay bundled on the earth. “Gawd, it stinks. Somebody meant to bury their pet or mother and changed their mind. Look at that hat, it’s been gnawed on by graveyard rats, by the look of it. Ever seen anything so filthy? Pah!”

  “It certainly reeks,” I expressed, as Miss Dubois left my side and knelt before the pile with the strangest smile on her enchanting face. I watched as she picked up the grimy hat and sniffed at it. “You don’t want to touch that stuff, my dear. It’s coated with heaven knows what.” Without answering me, she placed the hat onto the pile and leaned a little closer to the rubble. Subtly, she blew upon the heap, and as she did so the sunset grew a little darker. I watched her eyes as they caught and reflected the gold and amethyst shades of sundown.

  “Well, this has been an enchanting afternoon. I have enjoyed your company,” the lady informed us, standing and obviously signifying that our exploit was at an end. “It was wonderful to meet you, Mr. St. Clair. I hope we may look forward to a new
collection of tales soon?”

  I bowed to her and shook her hand. “My publisher has been making encouraging noises in that direction.”

  She turned to the artist. “Good day, Mr. Coffin.” The handsome man refused her outstretched hand, strode to her and took her into his arms.

  “The pleasure has been all mine,” he sang as he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to her exposed bosom. “Let’s come here alone some night before you leave and I’ll spin you a macabre story.”

  “I think not, sirrah,” she returned as she gently pushed him from her.

  What curious creatures, I thought, as I walked with them up the red brick path to Benefit Street. I followed Miss Dubois up some steps, and then stopped as, holding onto the black metal handrail, the woman turned to gaze one last time at the ancient church. I turned as well, and saw the impish figure that watched us from where it stood near one of the flat tombs. Was it a child, perhaps, dressed in outlandish garb? As I watched, it raised one arm and seemed to wave to us, but something about its appearance disconcerted me and I did not return its gesture. The lady standing just before me did, however, lifting her handsome hand and moving it peculiarly, as twilight engulfed the sky.

  II.

  I accompanied the peculiar Enoch Coffin to his B&B on Benefit Street and accepted his invitation to his room, a spacious chamber on the first floor in which there was a large bed and choice pieces of good furniture. We sat in comfortable chairs before curtained windows and talked of Poe, weird literature, and other things. He asked why I had come to the city of seven hills.

  “My publisher has sent me on a small book-signing tour of New England and New York, a short three-week affair. It’s rather nice, I’ve never been one for doing much traveling. I’m anxious about New York – not much for crowds and such. Providence has been delightful, and the signing last night was well-attended.”

  He asked the name of the bookstore where I had signed, and nodded when I told him. “Yes, a charming little shop. I’ll go there tonight and pick up your book. Interesting idea, a religious fellow writing horror. Being Christian, you naturally believe in evil. Yes, I thought you would. Have you ever confronted it, Reverend?”

  “I’ve seen its manifestations, in crime and debauchery, certainly.”

  “Manifestations, yes.” His voice was very quiet. “Personification? No? That’s something I try to evoke with my art, you see – the essence of malignant evil. Not an ordinary everyday iniquity, but the malevolence that one may detect, if one is keenly attuned, in secret places. Old places.”

  “But places of human habitation nonetheless, I think. Our conception of ‘evil’ is, these days, aligned with human crime, wouldn’t you say?”

  “That is a potent wickedness, certainly. But I was thinking of a different kind of – sin, let us say – that although implemented by human corruption has aspects of, um, otherness, something beyond mortality and – not quite human.”

  “Ah, yes, I try to suggest such things in my weird fiction. It’s all fantasy, of course, but it can make for a powerful imaginative effect. It’s a seeing beyond the veil, I tell my friends who criticize my penchant for writing horror. It’s a lifting of shadow so as to peer, if one has the nerve, to that which lurks beyond.”

  Coffin clapped his hands together and nodded his head. “The great Outside, beyond the rim of time and dimension. The secrets of the grave, or beneath the grave. Gawd, how I adore it! How I love to conjure it with my art and give it aesthetic life. I love how it triggers things in the fools who react to my canvases and criticize them. They may not like what I paint, but they cannot deny its effect.”

  I had had enough of the fellow’s ego and eccentricity, and so I made my excuses, explaining that the next day would be my last in Providence and I needed to prepare for my trek to Salem. I had forgotten that it was late, and the darkness outside rather disconcerted me. Something in Coffin’s energetic enthusiasm for ‘the secrets of the grave’ had gotten to me, which was amusing being that I was, after all, a horror author. I was at first uncertain as to where to walk so as to reach my room on College Hill, and so I crossed the street and walked toward the sandwich shop, which was about one block from where Coffin was staying. Right next to the old building that housed the café and some ascending apartments there was what looked like a large vacant parking lot, which was empty of everything except a large dumpster. I was still carrying my plastic bottle of apple juice, which I drained as I stood before the lot, and I decided to pop the empty bottle into the dumpster. The night was very quiet, deadly still. Going to the dumpster, I lifted its lid and dropped the bottle inside. The bin reeked, and something in the rancid odor seemed disturbingly familiar. It was as I lowered the lid that I noticed the shadowed figure, the dwarf in darkness, that stood against the cement wall just beside the dumpster. I thought, at first, that the figure was merely some flat silhouette that had been spray-painted onto the high cement wall, but then I saw the thing shiver and lift the head that wore the large round hat. The nighted area was too obscure for me to see any semblance of face or concrete form – the thing was just a shape that shivered momentarily and then lifted an arm, as if requesting alms. Saying nothing, barely breathing, I backed away and hurried out of the lot.

  I climbed a steep street that took me to a cement staircase, and I grabbed onto its railing as I ascended to the area that took me to the neighborhood near Brown University where I was renting a room. Interestingly, I had felt a sudden itch to write, and so I walked to the bookshop where I had sat signing my collection the previous evening. The friendly proprietor smiled at me and indicated the table on which my book was being featured, and I was happy to see that there were far fewer copies than had been there when I finished signing. The book was selling well. I told the lady that I wanted to buy a couple of notebooks in which to scribble, and thus she led me to a section of the shop that featured a variety of types of notebooks and personal journals. I bought two thick notebooks of lined paper and this journal in which I am writing now. It came to me that I might be able to create an effective little tale concerning my experience in the parking lot, although I would have to expand on the horror. The idea came to me that my narrator could be a homeless hobo who had gone in search of food and found edible garbage in a dumpster, and so he climbed into the cozy den of compost and began to partake; and then he would fall asleep in the safety of the small confined area, until awakened by something else, something ravenous, that came in search of sustenance. I played with an outline but was suddenly too weary to write, although it was not yet late enough to sleep. My room looked out on a busy street that was active with college nightlife, and I opened my window so as to let the sound of youthful chatter and distant rock music filter into my little world. I welcomed the din of humanity, the buzz of mortal activity; for I had been touched by an aura of implacable menace ever since my meeting with the strange dark woman and the weird fellow from Boston.

  I must have fallen asleep in my chair, for I awakened with a start. The activity outside my window had ceased, but music sounded still. I thought at first that one of my neighbors was either playing some exotic recording or that some foreign chap in a neighboring room was experimenting inexpertly on some flute or horn – at least, I assumed it was the playing of an instrument, for I don’t think that a human mechanism could produce such a peculiar high wail; and yet, the more I listened, there did seem to be a kind of articulation in the sound. My chair was near to the window that I had opened, and I shifted my head a little so as to peer into the gulf of night, outside. That word – why did it send a tingle through my flesh? Outside. There, in night’s gloom, where I saw no stars, I could but dimly discern one black globe that drifted ominously in an abyss of pitch. The midnight disc then opened two diamond-shaped stars in which sunset colors frolicked. Sparkling beams from those twin points of unearthly illumination drifted to me through the stillness of air and spilled into one corner of my room. It stood there, suddenly revealed – the dwarfish creature
that wore its wretched rumpled clothing and from which a nauseating stench assailed. It lifted the malformed head that wore the tattered hat, and some void within what masqueraded as a face split so as to issue a high wailing that corresponded with the noise from the adjoining room. I saw the thin slits that served as nostrils and the pits that were vacant of eyes. The thing lifted an arm, as it had when I encountered it at the dumpster; but now I understood that it was not asking for alms but rather meant to take some kind of offering from me. I blinked, as chilly exhalation froze my features, and I sensed the nearness of the black cosmic sphere that, having entered my little room, puffed upon my face. It brushed my countenance, an unholy gust, and my eyeball, inexplicably loosened, escaped its socket. The wretched imp, now very near me, caught my orb with its hand held out.

  I awakened a second time, in my silent little room, with the wind of evening pouring to me from the opened window next to which I had slumbered.

  III.

  It was my last day in bewitching Providence, and I wanted to drink my fill of it before I boarded the late afternoon bus to Salem. I was rather annoyed, therefore, to run into Enoch Coffin soon after leaving my little room so as to walk the city lanes. He hadn’t shaved and was dressed rather carelessly, I thought. He smiled at me in such a way that it seemed almost a condescending leer.

  “Reverend St. Clair, how amazing of you to look so immaculate so early in the day. I have your little book and was hoping to run into you. Please, if you will.” He held to me my book and a fountain pen, and I inscribed my name. “Excellent. I’ve read a few of the stories. You have a nice little style and a lively imagination. I like the one story set in Florida – it is a real achievement to evoke horror in such a dominion of sunshine.”