Howard felt petrified in jubilation, to the extent that his heart skipped a few beats. An acceptance meant… Another cheque! “Why, that’s—that’s—that’s—”
Did the subtle accentuation of her grin indicate some cryptic signal of the lascivious? “Oh, yes, sir! Your story caused quite a row!” Like a card player’s sleight of hand, she at once offered a bank cheque. “So without further delay, I’d like to give you this, with my greatest thanks.”
Howard’s heart skipped a few more beats when his eyes found the words Pay to the order of H.P. Lovecraft the sum of $500. So not only had the second cheque arrived, it had been, of all things, hand-delivered!
“I—I—I,” he mumbled.
“The story will appear in next month’s issue, and, well…” She paused as if uncomfortable. “I couldn’t impose by asking…”
Howard finally rid himself of the proverbial frogs that had found their way to his throat. “Ask, um, what?”
“We know that authors in such popular demand as yourself have so little time for alternate demonstrations of their talent, as I’m sure you’re far too busy with your important work to ever entertain the prospect of, say, writing for us on a regular basis—”
Howard nearly fell back against the wall.
“Say, four times a year? And for no less payment, naturally.”
The frogs returned in multiplicity, and after coming close to choking on them, he croaked, “I accept…”
She looked beyond belief, batting her long-lashed eyes. “Thank you very much, sir,” and then she opened her hand over her heart. “It’s been a true honour meeting you.”
Howard looked at her, agog. “You’re-you’re not leaving already?”
“Oh, but I couldn’t impose further. I know you’re terribly busy—”
“I’m not busy!” he came very close to shouting. Think, you lackwit! Think! “Um, well… oh! Please adjourn with me to my… writing chamber. I have coffee!”
Francine seemed to fully blush, and she replied in a hot gush, “I was so hoping you’d ask, sir.”
Only when Howard had climbed half the flight’s steps was he stricken by a propulsive sense of dread. My room… it’s—it’s… It stood in such unkemptness and disrepair that he didn’t dare let her see it. There were empty bean cans all about, and myriad ginger snap crumbs, not to mention mouse droppings galore.
He cleared his throat. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to take our coffee in the hall—”
“What?”
“You see, I wasn’t expecting a guest and-and-and…”
“Oh, Mr. Lovecraft, please! All great artists are messy. They’re too busy crafting their great art to piddle valuable time with mundane chores such as housekeeping. It’s said that Michelangelo never once cleaned his floor, and in fact only cleaned himself a few times per year. Samuel Coleridge wrote ‘Rime’ in what he described as his ‘happy hovel.’”
Howard turned, encouraged. “You don’t say? Coleridge?”
The comely face nodded behind him. “Really, sir, don’t be self-conscious over your room’s appearance. In all honesty, I’d be disappointed to find it tidy. However, clean or dirty, I’d be honoured to stand in the very room where the great H.P. Lovecraft has written so many ground-breaking tales.”
“Well… since you put it that way.”
He brought her to the landing; whereupon, his aunt’s voice sailed from the next room. “Howard! Who’s that you’re talking to?”
For the love of Pegana! Howard let his face stiffen to sternness. “Auntie, please! I’m in the midst of a consultation of import with a very noteworthy editor from New York.”
“How wonderful, Howard…”
Next, he took a deep breath, thought, My room probably smells more foul than the cellar of the Shunned House, and opened his door. “Rrrrr-right this way, Miss Wilcox.”
“Oh, please. Call me Francine…”
He stepped aside and let her pass.
Instead of gagging, or rolling her eyes, her long shapely legs took her in haste to his writing-table. She smoothed her hands, as if in adoration, over the cluttered desktop, let her fingers trace across the keys of his decades-old typing-machine, then picked up his fountain pen and held it as if it were an icon. “This is so exciting,” she whispered and even appeared to have a tear in her eye. “To touch the same desk upon which so many masterpieces of horror have been composed… and to have in my own hands… the same pen.”
Howard didn’t know what to say. I stole the pen from the library, and the desk came from a neighbour’s rubbish heap.
“You must tell me, sir—”
“Howard, please.”
Her cheeks turned rosy. “How did you devise such an imaginative tale as ‘Trolley No. 1852?’”
Here in the light from the window, Howard took greater note of her body’s voluptuous secrets beneath the smart, belted overcoat. Certainly, she wore a brassiere and blouse as well, yet he could swear that the distinct out-dents of formidable areolae were evident. “Oh,” he sloughed off, “it was more creative self-cannibalism than any feat of elaborate imagination. I merely took several samplings from my Yog-Sothian pantheon, stripped them to the bone, and added new flesh. Old wine into new bottles? The nefarious ancient hag, Keziah Mason, was metamorphosed to the lusty-physiqued but corrupt-skinned witch-priestess Isimah el-Aheb; the planet Yuggoth became the para-dimensional terrascape; my shoggoths became thoggs; the shimmering violet flux of ‘Dreams in the Witch-House’ became the Abhorrescence; and my ‘daemon-sultan’ Azathoth who lives lifelessly at the pith of Chaos became the Pyramidiles.” Howard’s stooped shoulders shrugged. “It was quite simple, actually.”
“You’re too lenient in your appraisal of your talent, Howard.” She took a breath, then grinned and blushed once more. “And the sex scenes! I won’t even ask how you conceived of those!”
Howard fidgeted. Delighted as he was by her charming presence and flattering air, face-to-face discourse entailing matters of licentiousness with a member of the opposite sex made him uncomfortable. Instead, he uttered, “Oh, they just came to me and I wrote them.”
Perhaps she sensed his discomfiture, for, next, she abruptly turned her back to him and gazed through the window in the space between the swags. (Regular folk had “curtains” over their windows; poor writers had “swags”: any sundry fabric that had outlived its original purpose, such as old bedsheets or holey shirts, tacked over the panes. One writer, in the distant future, would have shower-curtain liners and dollar-store beach towels over his windows, a note mentioned here only in passing.) However, Francine seemed awed. “So this is the view that the master of modern horror sees every day when he writes…”
“Why, yes, and it’s a view near and dear to me,” Howard said, but just as the comely woman seemed awed by the sight of west Providence, Howard remained equally awed by the sight of her jutting rump as she leaned over his writing-table. His eyes inched downward, scouring first the derriere’s exquisite curves, then the legs which could only be described as absolutely and inarguably bereft of defect. Momentarily, her heels rose out of her shoes as she stood on tiptoes, and Howard actually cringed like a fetishist, for the action caused her gorgeously toned calves to flex…