When the—we might as well say, when Virginia places one gray foot onto the floor of Edgar’s room, a kind of ripple runs through the entire room, as if every last bit of it is registering the intrusion. How Edgar wishes he could look away as she crosses the floor to him. In a far corner of his brain that is capable of such judgments, he knows that this is the price for his hubris—really, it’s almost depressingly formulaic. He could almost accept the irony if he did not have to watch those hands dragging their nails back and forth over one another, leaving the skin hanging in pale strips; if he could avoid the sight of whatever is seething in the folds of the bosom of her dress; if he could shut his eyes to that mouth and its dark contents as they descend to his. But he can’t; he cannot turn away from his Proserpine as she rejoins him at last.

  Four days prior to his death, Edgar is found on the street, delirious, barely-conscious. He never recovers. Right at the end, he rallies long enough to dictate a highly-abbreviated version of the story I’ve told you to a Methodist minister, who finds what he records so disturbing he sews it into the binding of the family Bible, where it will remain concealed for a century and a half.

  As for what Edgar called forth—she walks out of our narrative and is not seen again.

  It’s a crazy story. It makes the events of Vauglais’s life seem almost reasonable in comparison. If you were so inclined, I suppose you could ascribe Edgar’s experience in that rented room to an extreme form of auto-hypnosis which, combined with the stress on his from his drinking and the brain tumor, precipitates a fatal collapse. In which case, the story I’ve told you is little more than an elaborate symptom. It’s the kind of reading a literary critic prefers; it keep the more . . . outré elements safely quarantined within the writer’s psyche.

  Suppose, though, suppose. Suppose that all this insanity I’ve been feeding you isn’t a quaint example of early-nineteenth-century pseudoscience. Suppose that its interest extends well beyond any insights it might offer in interpreting “The Masque of the Red Death.” Suppose—let’s say the catastrophe that overtakes Edgar is the result of—we could call it poor planning. Had he paid closer attention to the details of Prosper’s history, especially to that sojourn in the catacombs, he would have recognized the difficulty—to the point of impossibility—of making his attempt alone. Granted, he was desperate. But there was a reason Vauglais took the members of his salon underground with him—to use as a source of power, a battery, as it were. They provided the energy; he directed it. Edgar’s story is a testament to what must have been a tremendous—an almost unearthly will. In the end, though, it wasn’t enough.

  Of course, how could he have brought together a sufficient number of individuals, and where? By the close of his life, he wasn’t the most popular of fellows. Not to mention, he would have needed to expose the members of this hypothetical group to Prosper’s designs and their corresponding colors.

  Speaking of which: pleasant as this violet has been, what do you say we proceed to the piece de resistance? Faceless lackeys, on my mark—

  Ahh. I don’t usually talk about these things, but you have no idea how much trouble this final color combination gave me. I mean, red and black gives you dark red, right? Right, except that for the design to achieve its full effect, putting up a dark red light won’t do. You need red layered over black—and a true black light, not ultraviolet. The result, though—I’m sure you’ll agree, it was worth sweating over. It’s like a picture painted in red on a black canvas, wouldn’t you say? And look what it does for the final image. It seems to be reaching right out of the screen for you, doesn’t it? Strictly speaking, Vauglais’s name for it, “Le Dessous,” the Underneath, isn’t quite grammatical French, but we needn’t worry ourselves over such details. There are times I think another name would be more appropriate: the Maw, perhaps, and then there are moments I find the Underneath perfect. You can see why I might lean towards calling it a mouth—the Cave would do, as well—except that the perspective’s all wrong. If this is a mouth, or a cave, we aren’t looking into it; we’re already inside, looking out.

  Back to Edgar. As we’ve said, even had he succeeded in gathering a group to assist him in his pursuit, he would have had to find a way to introduce them Prosper’s images and their colors. If he could have, he would have . . . reoriented them, their minds, the channels of their thoughts. Vauglais’s designs would have brought them closer to where they needed to be; they would have made available certain dormant faculties within his associates.

  Even that would have left him with challenges, to be sure. Mesmerism, hypnosis, as Prosper himself discovered, is a delicate affair, one subject to such external variables as running out of lamp oil too soon. It would have been better if he could have employed some type of pharmacological agent, something that would have deposited them into a more useful state, something sufficiently concentrated to be delivered via a few bites of an innocuous food—a cookie, say, whose sweetness would mask any unpleasant taste, and which he could cajole his assistants to sample by claiming that his wife had baked them.

  Then, if Edgar had been able to keep this group distracted while the cookies did their work—perhaps by talking to them about his writing—about the genesis of one of his stories, say, “The Masque of the Red Death”—if he had managed this far, he might have been in a position to make something happen, to perform the Great Work.

  There’s just one more thing, and that’s the object for which Edgar would have put himself to all this supposed trouble: Virginia. I like to think I’m as romantic as the next guy, but honestly—you have the opportunity to rescript reality, and the best you can come up with is returning your dead wife to you? Talk about a failure to grasp the possibilities . . .

  What’s strange—and frustrating—is that it’s all right there in “The Masque,” in Edgar’s own words. The whole idea of the Great Work, of Transumption, is to draw one of the powers that our constant, collective writing of the real consigns to abstraction across the barrier into physicality. Ideally, one of the members of that trinity Edgar named so well, Darkness and Decay and the Red Death, those who hold illimitable dominion over all. The goal is to accomplish something momentous, to shake the world to its foundations, not play out some hackneyed romantic fantasy. That was what Vauglais was up to, trying to draw into form the force that strips the flesh from our bones, that crumbles those bones to dust.

  No matter. Edgar’s mistake still has its uses as a distraction, and a lesson. Not that it’ll do any of you much good. By now, I suspect few of you can hear what I’m saying, let alone understand it. I’d like to tell you the name of what I stirred into that cookie dough, but it’s rather lengthy and wouldn’t do you much good, anyway. I’d also like to tell you it won’t leave you permanently impaired, but that wouldn’t exactly be true. One of the consequences of its efficacy, I fear. If it’s any consolation, I doubt most of you will survive what’s about to follow. By my reckoning, the power I’m about to bring into our midst will require a good deal of . . . sustenance in order to establish a more permanent foothold here. I suspect this is of even less consolation, but I do regret this aspect of the plan I’m enacting. It’s just—once you come into possession of such knowledge, how can you not make use—full use of it?

  You see, I’m starting at the top. Or at the beginning—before the beginning, really, before light burst across the perfect formlessness that was everything. I’m starting with Darkness, with something that was already so old at that moment of creation that it had long forgotten its identity. I plan to restore it. I will give myself to it for a guide, let it envelop me and consume you and run out from here in a flood that will wash this world away. I will give to Darkness a dominion more complete than it has known since it was split asunder.

  Look—in the air—can you see it?

  CATALOG

  EUGENE MIRABELLI

  One minute he was there, the same as ever, and the next—Wham!—he was in this other place where everything had lost its thickness, was deflated, flat. For a moment he wondered if maybe the world was as solid as ever but his mind had collapsed—a thought that made his head spin, or would have if a young woman hadn’t turned up just then, saying, “Here we are.”

  “Oh! I. Yes! Here we are,” he said, trying to gather his wits.

  The young woman had her hand on the door of a life-size photograph of a glossy black sports car, a cut-out photo backed with wood or stiff cardboard so it stood there looking as if it were real.

  “As you can see, the Alfa Romeo Spider is a beautiful two-seater convertible,” she told him, smiling. “It replaces an older version, the Spider 916 model, which was introduced back in 1995.”

  His head had cleared and he saw it wasn’t a photo but the thing itself, a gleaming black sports car, a two-seater with golden brown leather seats. The woman was in a skimpy white dress, more like a stretched T-shirt than a dress.

  “Where am I? What’s happening?” he said.

  “What’s happening nowadays is a Type 939 with front-wheel drive and six-speed manual transmission.” She had leaned into the cockpit and, still looking at John, placed her hand gently, caressingly, on the knob of the erect shift. “As you can imagine, it has power and lots of it!”

  “I’m not interested in cars,” he cried. “I don’t know what I’m doing here or how I got—.”

  Her smile vanished for a moment, but then she brightened. “I know what you’re wondering. And the answer is 9.4 miles per gallon,” she told him, smiling once more.

  “Listen, maybe you can tell me—,” he started to say.

  But she was walking away, her high heels making a brisk tap-tap-tap on the shiny showroom floor. Her back was bare just to the cleft of her buttocks and her dress appeared not filled by her but merely held against it by the slender white ribbon tied in a bow knot at the nape of her neck.

  “This is impossible,” he muttered, following her toward the big glass door.

  “Impossible?” she said, turning to him with a smile. “Almost impossible. But, yes, this is a 1963 Ferrari, a 250 GT Lusso.” She trailed her hand up the rear of a dazzling red car. “One of the most sought after classic Ferrari vehicles. Beautifully restored, the black leather interior is as soft as glove—.”

  John had shoved open the glass door, stepped outside and was looking around. He didn’t recognize any of the buildings. He discovered he didn’t have his cell phone with him; he jammed his hands into his pockets, felt his wallet and his apartment keys—all there. He walked to the end of the block, stopped at the cross street and saw that the sign was missing—no surprise—then he turned around and began walking to the other end. The block was composed of expensive shops selling men’s shirts, electronic gear, wine, sun glasses, fancy driving gloves, and sports equipment.

  He was standing on the curb, wondering if this was a part of Manhattan he didn’t know, when she said, “Here we are again.” Now she was wearing a yellow swim-top and a short brown suede skirt.

  “You’ve changed, but you look familiar,” he said, puzzled.

  She laughed. “We were in the auto showroom, remember?”

  “No, no, no. I mean from before then.” He had closed his eyes and was rubbing his forehead with his fist. “I don’t understand—.”

  “I do photo shoots. Not as many as I’d like, but maybe you saw one of my spreads.”

  He looked at her. “You know this part of the city?”

  “Not really.—Oh, look!” She had abruptly squatted, half kneeling to display a dazzling white inner thigh, and was now scratching the curly head of a friendly terrier. “Oh, you cute, cute doggy!” She rubbed her cheek against the dog’s muzzle. The terrier wagged its tail, jumped backward and dashed off. “Bouncy little dog.”

  “A Jack Russell terrier,” he said. “Not my favorite breed.”

  “Can you imagine meeting a fun dog like that? So cute and friendly! That’s why I love the city.”

  “What city?” he asked, intending to find out what city this was. “What city do you love?”

  “I love San Francisco for its wonderful views. I love Boston for its historical sites. I love New York for its great museums. And also Washington, DC, for its historical sites and great museums, I think.”

  “I’m sure we’ve met someplace before,” he murmured. “You live around here?” he asked her, still hoping to learn where he was.

  “Certainly.” She stepped off the curb into street traffic and hailed an onrushing cab. “Let’s go.”

  In the cab he asked her name. “Veronica London,” she said. “What’s your’s?”

  “John Mousse.”

  “Moose? You mean like the animal? The one like the reindeer?”

  He peered out the cab window at the building façade sweeping past, flat as a photo. “Yeah, the one like the reindeer.”

  “Now it’s your turn, John, so what’s your favorite city?”

  “I don’t like cities.”

  2

  In her apartment Veronica asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”

  John looked around. “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he told her.

  She smiled as if they were about to have fun. “Oh, I think you do. I think we both know what you’re doing here. Or going to be doing.”

  “I’m just lonely,” he protested. “That’s all I am, and confused.”

  “Forget about that,” she told him. “Let me get you something to drink.”

  “It’s too early in the day for me to start drinking.”

  “I have an ex-presso machine. I can make you some presso,” she said.

  “Presso?”

  “It’s European coffee.”

  “It is? Oh, that! Yes. Espresso. I’ll have that,” he said.

  She smiled. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get things started.”

  Veronica returned carrying a small tray with two diminutive cups of coffee. She was in a semi-transparent slip or nightgown or breakfast robe or peignoir or something—John didn’t know what it was called—a loose white garment that flowed in a cataract from her shoulders to her breasts, to her hips, knees and ankles, allowing the ivory-rose color her flesh to show through. She set the tray on a marble-topped café table by the window where a gauze curtain was filled with blurred sunlight. John couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “Here’s to you,” she said, raising her cup in a toast.

  “I’m positive we’ve met,” he told her. “I just can’t place you. I recognize you but I can’t quite recall where.”

  “A lot of people think they know me,” she said.

  3

  The bed upon which she waited was covered with thick rumpled folds of crushed amber velvet and as she unfolded herself in the rosy half-light the silver jewelry in her navel gleamed and winked, catching his eye. “Hey,” he said. “That’s a staple! You’ve got a silver staple in your navel. And—Yes!—Now I remember. You’re Miss November! In the magazine! Yes, yes, yes!”

  “That was two years and seven months ago,” she said, her voice husky with desire. “And you’ve kept it all that time. Come,” She stretched, opening her arms to him.

  “A magazine! Oh, God, what’s happening,” he cried.

  The usual was happening.

  Afterward he told her, “I don’t know why I did that. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. We have nothing in common, absolutely nothing, you and me.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said languidly, but with an edge to her voice. “That wasn’t a marriage ceremony we performed.”

  “I’m sure you’re a very nice person,” he hastened to add. “But you’re not my type.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment. “You kept my magazine so long it must be a collector’s item. I’m flattered.”

  “I was using it to hide a different magazine,” he explained.

  They were lying side by side on the big disheveled velvet bed and now she turned her head to look at him. “Just who is your type?” she asked.

  “You’d laugh if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  He hesitated. “You know the L. L. Bean catalog?” he asked tentatively.

  “Nope.”

  “They sell regular clothes, mostly, but also canoes and tents—camping equipment.”

  “So?” She sat up, pulling her knees to her chin.

  “So there’s a woman in the Christmas issue two years ago and she’s my type.”

  She glanced at him. “A woman in some outdoor clothing and camping catalog?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want her for this?” she said, incredulous. “She’s your type?”

  He felt his face getting hot, flushing. “Yes,” he confessed.

  Veronica looked at him a moment, then let herself flop backward onto the velvet bed cover. “You see, I didn’t laugh.”

  When he awoke at noon she was gone and a note lay on his clothes which he’d tossed onto a bed chair last night. Good Morning John—Don’t forget to leave the door so it locks when you exit. Make sure you try it after you’ve shut it. And I’ve set the Ex-Presso machine so it will make regular American coffee.

  Bye-bye,

  Veronica (a very nice person)!!!