Dreamsongs. Volume I by George R. R. Martin
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To do…to do what he did. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting.”
“Hmmm,” Don said. “How, then? The locks were changed, remember? He can’t even get in the building. He’s never had a key to this apartment. There was no sign of forced entry. How did he get in with his bag of cheese curls?”
Jessie had him there. “Angela left the living room windows open,” she said.
Angela looked stricken. “I did,” she admitted. “Oh, Jessie, honey, I’m so sorry. It was hot. I just wanted to get a breeze, I didn’t mean…”
“The windows are too high to reach from the sidewalk,” Donald pointed out. “He’d have needed a ladder or something to stand on. He’d have needed to do it in broad daylight, from a busy street, with people coming and going all the time. He’d have had to have left the same way. There’s the problem of the screens. He doesn’t look like a very athletic sort, either.”
“He did it,” Jessie insisted. “He was here, wasn’t he?”
“I know you think so, and I’m not trying to deny your feelings, just explore them. Has this Pear-shaped Man ever been invited into the apartment?”
“Of course not!” Jessie said. “What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing, Jess. Just consider. He climbs in through the windows with these cheese curls he intends to secret in your drawers. Fine. How does he know which room is yours?”
Jessie frowned. “He…I don’t know…he searched around, I guess.”
“And found what clue? You’ve got three bedrooms here, one a studio, two full of women’s clothing. How’d he pick the right one?”
“Maybe he did it in both.”
“Angela, would you go check your bedroom, please?” Donald asked.
Angela rose hesitantly. “Well,” she said, “okay.” Jessie and Donald stared at each other until she returned a minute or so later. “All clean,” she said.
“I don’t know how he figured out which damned room was mine,” Jessie said. “All I know is that he did. He had to. How else can you explain what happened, huh? Do you think I did it myself?”
Donald shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said calmly. He glanced over his shoulder into the studio. “Funny, though. That painting in there, him and you, he must have done that some other time, after you finished it but before you sent it to Pirouette. It’s good work, too. Almost as good as yours.”
Jessie had been trying very hard not to think about the painting. She opened her mouth to throw something back at him, but nothing flew out. She closed her mouth. Tears began to gather in the corners of her eyes. She suddenly felt weary, confused, and very alone. Angela had walked over to stand beside Donald. They were both looking at her. Jessie looked down at her hands helplessly and said, “What am I going to do? God. What am I going to do?”
God did not answer; Donald did. “Only one thing to do,” he said briskly. “Face up to your fears. Exorcise them. Go down there and talk to the man, get to know him. By the time you come back up, you may pity him or have contempt for him or dislike him, but you won’t fear him any longer; you’ll see that he’s only a human being and a rather sad one.”
“Are you sure, Don?” Angela asked him.
“Completely. Confront this obsession of yours, Jessie. That’s the only way you’ll ever be free of it. Go down to the basement and visit with the Pear-shaped Man.”
“THERE’S NOTHING TO BE AFRAID OF,” ANGELA TOLD HER AGAIN.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Look, Jess, the minute you’re inside, Don and I will come out and sit on the stoop. We’ll be just an earshot away. All you’ll have to do is let out the teeniest little yell and we’ll come rushing right down. So you won’t be alone, not really. And you’ve still got that knife in your purse, right?”
Jessie nodded.
“Come on, then, remember the time that purse snatcher tried to grab your shoulder bag? You decked him good. If this Pear-shaped Man tries anything, you’re quick enough. Stab him. Run away. Yell for us. You’ll be perfectly safe.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Jessie said with a small sigh. They were right. She knew it. It didn’t make any sense. He was a dirty, foul-smelling, unattractive man, maybe a little retarded, but nothing she couldn’t handle, nothing she had to be afraid of, she didn’t want to be crazy, she was letting this ridiculous obsession eat her alive and it had to end now, Donald was perfectly correct, she’d been doing it to herself all along and now she was going to take hold of it and stop it, certainly, it all made perfect sense and there was nothing to worry about, nothing to be afraid of, what could the Pear-shaped Man do to her, after all, what could he possibly do to her that was so terrifying? Nothing. Nothing.
Angela patted her on the back. Jessie took a deep breath, took the doorknob firmly in hand, and stepped out of the building into the hot, damp evening air. Everything was under control.
So why was she so scared?
NIGHT WAS FALLING, BUT DOWN UNDER THE STAIRS IT HAD FALLEN already. Down under the stairs it was always night. The stoop cut off the morning sun, and the building itself blocked the afternoon light. It was dark, so dark. She stumbled over a crack in the cement, and her foot rang off the side of a metal garbage can. Jessie shuddered, imagining flies and maggots and other, worse things moving and breeding back there where the sun never shone. No, mustn’t think about that, it was only garbage, rotting and festering in the warm, humid dark, mustn’t dwell on it. She was at the door.
She raised her hand to knock, and then the fear took hold of her again. She could not move. Nothing to be frightened of, she told herself, nothing at all. What could he possibly do to her? Yet still she could not bring herself to knock. She stood before his door with her hand raised, her breath raw in her throat. It was so hot, so suffocatingly hot. She had to breathe. She had to get out from under the stoop, get back to where she could breathe.
A thin vertical crack of yellow light split the darkness. No, Jessie thought, oh, please no.
The door was opening.
Why did it have to open so slowly? Slowly, like in her dreams. Why did it have to open at all?
The light was so bright in there. As the door opened, Jessie found herself squinting.
The Pear-shaped Man stood smiling at her.
“I,” Jessie began, “I, uh, I…”
“There she is,” the Pear-shaped Man said in his tinny little squeak.
“What do you want from me?” Jessie blurted.
“I knew she’d come,” he said, as though she wasn’t there. “I knew she’d come for my things.”
“No,” Jessie said. She wanted to run away, but her feet would not move.
“You can come in,” he said. He raised his hand, moved it toward her face. He touched her. Five fat white maggots crawled across her cheek and wriggled through her hair. His fingers smelled like cheese curls. His pinkie touched her ear and tried to burrow inside. She hadn’t seen his other hand move until she felt it grip her upper arm, pulling, pulling. His flesh felt damp and cold. Jessie whimpered.
“Come in and see my things,” he said. “You have to. You know you have to.” And somehow she was inside then, and the door was closing behind her, and she was there, inside, alone with the Pear-shaped Man.
Jessie tried to get a grip on herself. Nothing to be afraid of, she repeated to herself, a litany, a charm, a chant, nothing to be afraid of, what could he do to you, what could he do? The room was L-shaped, low ceilinged, filthy. The sickly sweet smell was overwhelming. Four naked lightbulbs burned in the fixture above, and along one wall was a row of old lamps without shades, bare bulbs blazing away. A three-legged card table stood against the opposite wall, its fourth corner propped up by a broken TV set with wires dangling through the shattered glass of its picture tube. On top of the card table was a big bowl of Cheez Doodles. Jessie looked away, feeling sick. She tried to step backward, and her foot hit an empty plastic Coke bottle. She almost fell. But the Pear
Jessie yanked herself free of him and backed away. Her hand went into her purse and closed around the knife. It made her feel better, stronger. She moved close to the boarded-up window. Outside she could make out Donald and Angela talking. The sound of their voices, so close at hand—that helped, too. She tried to summon up all of her strength. “How do you live like this?” she asked him. “Do you need help cleaning up the place? Are you sick?” It was so hard to force out the words.
“Sick,” the Pear-shaped Man repeated. “Did they tell you I was sick? They lie about me. They lie about me all the time. Somebody should make them stop.” If only he would stop smiling. His lips were so wet. But he never stopped smiling. “I knew you would come. Here. This is for you.” He pulled it from a pocket, held it out.
“No,” said Jessie. “I’m not hungry. Really.” But she was hungry, she realized. She was famished. She found herself staring at the thick orange twist between his fingers, and suddenly she wanted it desperately. “No,” she said again, but her voice was weaker now, barely more than a whisper, and the cheese curl was very close.
Her mouth sagged open. She felt it on her tongue, the roughness of the powdery cheese, the sweetness of it. It crunched softly between her teeth. She swallowed and licked the last orange flakes from her lower lip. She wanted more.
“I knew it was you,” said the Pear-shaped Man. “Now your things are mine.” Jessie stared at him. It was like in her nightmare. The Pear-shaped Man reached up and began to undo the little white plastic buttons on his shirt. She struggled to find her voice. He shrugged out of the shirt. His undershirt was yellow, with huge damp circles under his arms. He peeled it off, dropped it. He moved closer, and heavy white breasts flopped against his chest. The right one was covered by a wide blue smear. A dark little tongue slid between his lips. Fat white fingers worked at his belt like a team of dancing slugs. “These are for you,” he said.
Jessie’s knuckles were white around the hilt of the knife. “Stop,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
His pants settled to the floor.
She couldn’t take it. No more, no more. She pulled the knife free of her bag, raised it over her head. “Stop!”
“Ahh,” said the Pear-shaped Man, “there it is.”
She stabbed him.
The blade went in right to the hilt, plunged deep into his soft, white skin. She wrenched it down and out. The skin parted, a huge, meaty gash. The Pear-shaped Man was smiling his little smile. There was no blood, no blood at all. His flesh was soft and thick, all pale dead meat.
He moved closer, and Jessie stabbed him again. This time he reached up and knocked her hand away. The knife was embedded in his neck. The hilt wobbled back and forth as he padded toward her. His dead, white arms reached out and she pushed against him and her hand sank into his body like he was made of wet, rotten bread. “Oh,” he said, “oh, oh, oh.” Jessie opened her mouth to scream, and the Pear-shaped Man pressed those heavy wet lips to her own and swallowed at her sound. His pale eyes sucked at her. She felt his tongue darting forward, and it was round and black and oily, and then it was snaking down inside her, touching, tasting, feeling all her things. She was drowning in a sea of soft, damp flesh.
SHE WOKE TO THE SOUND OF THE DOOR CLOSING. IT WAS ONLY A SMALL click, a latch sliding into place, but it was enough. Her eyes opened, and she pulled herself up. It was so hard to move. She felt heavy, tired. Outside they were laughing. They were laughing at her. It was dim and far-off, that laughter, but she knew it was meant for her.
Her hand was resting on her thigh. She stared at it and blinked. She wiggled her fingers, and they moved like five fat maggots. She had something soft and yellow under her nails and deep, dirty yellow stains up near her fingertips.
She closed her eyes, ran her hand over her body, the soft heavy curves, the thicknesses, the strange hills and valleys. She pushed, and the flesh gave and gave and gave. She stood up weakly. There were her clothes, scattered on the floor. Piece by piece she pulled them on, and then she moved across the room. Her briefcase was down beside the door; she gathered it up, tucked it under her arm, she might need something, yes, it was good to have the briefcase. She pushed open the door and emerged into the warm night. She heard the voices above her: “…were right all along,” a woman was saying, “I couldn’t believe I’d been so silly. There’s nothing sinister about him, really, he’s just pathetic. Donald, I don’t know how to thank you.”
She came out from under the stoop and stood there. Her feet hurt so. She shifted her weight from one to the other and back again. They had stopped talking, and they were staring at her, Angela and Donald and a slender, pretty woman in blue jeans and work shirt. “Come back,” she said, and her voice was thin and high. “Give them back. You took them, you took my things. You have to give them back.”
The woman’s laugh was like ice cubes tinkling in a glass of Coke.
“I think you’ve bothered Jessie quite enough,” Donald said.
“She has my things,” she said. “Please.”
“I saw her come out, and she didn’t have anything of yours,” Donald said.
“She took all my things,” she said.
Donald frowned. The woman with the sandy hair and the green eyes laughed again and put a hand on his arm. “Don’t look so serious, Don. He’s not all there.”
They were all against her, she knew, looking at their faces. She clutched her briefcase to his chest. They’d taken her things, he couldn’t remember exactly what, but they wouldn’t get her case, he had stuff in there and they wouldn’t get it. She turned away from them. He was hungry, she realized. She wanted something to eat. He had half a bag of Cheez Doodles left, she remembered. Downstairs. Down under the stoop.
As she descended, the Pear-shaped Man heard them talking about her. He opened the door and went inside to stay. The room smelled like home. He sat down, laid his case across his knees, and began to eat. He stuffed the cheese curls into his mouth in big handfuls and washed them down with sips from a glass of warm Coke straight from the bottle he’d opened that morning, or maybe yesterday. It was good. Nobody knew how good it was. They laughed at him, but they didn’t know, they didn’t know about all the nice things he had. No one knew. No one. Only someday he’d see somebody different, somebody to give his things to, somebody who would give him all their things. Yes. He’d like that. He’d know her when he saw her.
He’d know just what to say.
Story Copyrights
Introduction copyright © 2003 by Gardner R. Dozois.
“Only Kids Are Afraid of the Dark” copyright © 1967 by Larry Herndon. From Star-Studded Comics, #10, Winter 1967.
“The Fortress” copyright © 2003 by George R. R. Martin.
“And Death His Legacy” copyright © 2003 by George R. R. Martin.
“The Hero” copyright © 1971 by UPD Publishing Corporation. Copyright renewed © 2001 by George R. R. Martin. From Galaxy, February 1971.
“The Exit to San Breta” copyright © 1971 by Ultimate Publishing Company, Inc. Copyright renewed © 2001 by George R. R. Martin. From Fantastic Stories, February 1972.
“The Second Kind of Loneliness” copyright © 1972 by the Condé Nast Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 2001 by George R. R. Martin. From Analog, December 1972.
“With Morning Comes Mistfall” copyright © 1973 by the Condé Nast Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 2002 by George R. R. Martin. From Analog, May 1973.
“A Song for Lya” copyright © 1974 by the Condé Nast Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 2002 by George R. R. Martin. From Analog, June 1974.
“This Tower of Ashes” copyright © 1976 by the Condé Nast Publications, Inc. From Analog Annual (Pyramid, 1976).
“And Seven Times Never Kill Man” copyright © 1975 by the Condé Nast Publications, Inc. From Analog, July 1975.
“The Stone City” copyright © 1977 by George R. R. Martin. From New Voices in Science
“Bitterblooms” copyright © 1977 by Baronet Publishing Company. From Cosmos, November 1977.
“The Way of Cross and Dragon” copyright © 1979 by Omni International, Ltd. From Omni, June 1979.
“The Lonely Songs of Laren Dorr” copyright © 1976 by Ultimate Publishing Co, Inc. From Fantastic Stories, May 1976.
“The Ice Dragon” copyright © 1980 by George R. R. Martin. From Dragons of Light (Ace, 1980).
“In the Lost Lands” copyright © 1982 by George R. R. Martin. From Amazons II (DAW, 1982).
“Meathouse Man” copyright © 1976 by Damon Knight. From Orbit 18 (Harper & Row, 1976).
“Remembering Melody” copyright © 1981 by TZ Publications, Inc. From Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone Magazine, April 1981.
“Sandkings” copyright © 1979 by Omni International, Ltd. From Omni, August 1979.
“Nightflyers” copyright © 1980, 1981 by George R. R. Martin. From Binary Star 5 (Dell, 1981). A shorter version of this story originally appeared in Analog, April 1980, copyright © 1980 by the Condé Nast Publications, Inc.
“The Monkey Treatment” copyright © 1983 by the Mercury Press, Inc. From The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, July 1983.
“The Pear-Shaped Man” copyright © 1987 by Omni International, Ltd. From Omni, October 1987.
BOOKS BY GEORGE R. R. MARTIN
A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE
Book One: A Game of Thrones
Book Two: A Clash of Kings
Book Three: A Storm of Swords
Book Four: A Feast for Crows
Dying of the Light
Windhaven (with Lisa Tuttle)
Fevre Dream
The Armageddon Rag
Dead Man’s Hand (with John J. Miller)
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
A Song of Lya and Others
Songs of Stars and Shadows