Songs From Spider Street Read Online Free

the
wire to a wall socket. Flicking it on, the light reveals an astonishing sight.
    The wall is
scrawled across with images of Rorschach rot. Horses dance next to priapic
giants; animal innards are piled high on a collection of severed children’s
limbs as a deformed house begins to topple onto them; a disgraced saint’s hand
hangs from some elaborate railings; a king’s crown is beaten flat, ready to be
remade by an angry but conscientious jester. Damp has drawn this atlas of
disasters for his eyes alone, he seems to sense.
    But could
Willets have seen these things, too? This, his endless fount of inspiration?
    The odour of
absinthe seeps into his consciousness. It has been there since he entered the
room but now it seems stronger.
    Looking
around he picks up the lamp and holds it higher. At the other end of the room
stands an ornate table laden with bottles. Green bottles. Absinthe.
    He plays out
the wire as far as it will go until he can set the lamp down in the centre of
the room. Turning he gasps, noticing for the first time a woman dressed in
green standing behind the table.
    He laughs
softly. “Sorry. You gave …” He stops, realising there is no-one there. A trick
of the light or rather the lack of it, he thinks. Not quite trusting his
senses, he circles the table several times, looking for some trace of her, but
finds nothing.
    When he
eventually stops, Joseph looks down at the table. Nearly a dozen bottles of
absinthe stare up at him, all the same brand and identical to the one in
Kaltenbach’s office. Why so much, he wonders? You could do yourself some real
damage with that much.
    He picks up
the nearest bottle to read the label and notices something odd about it.
    He peers past
the distinctive blue and silver label into the glowing depths of the bottle.
There is something in the bottom, twisting slowly as he tips the bottle to the
light.
    A worm, that’s
it. A worm? But isn’t it Mezcal that has a worm in the bottle? He brings the
bottle closer to his face.
    Only the
table’s edge stops the bottle from hitting the floor and smashing.
    He stoops to
look again as the bottle rolls to a halt against its companions. He hardly
draws breath as he fears to see what he knows is there.
    The
distinctive bearded face of Willets, reproduced perfectly in hideous miniature,
gazes absently at him from the sticky green depths.
    He gasps,
scuttling back. Willets was in the bottle. That’s where he was. Shrunken.
Drowned.
    His mind,
turning towards the safety of the shadows, wants to disbelieve the impossible.
Shuffling round to the side of the table, he stretches out his hand and gently
lifts another bottle. Barely holding its encrusted top between his thumb and
forefinger, he lifts it up to the light. A tiny feminine figure drifts face
down in the enclosed emerald current, dead green eyes dreaming through a sunken
cavern of green flames.
    Placing the
bottle gently down, praying that he doesn’t disturb the perfect little figure
floating within, he moves along the row.
    Here he is.
The object of his pursuit. Old man Kaltenbach sunk at the very bottom of the
bottle. A soft smile sitting on his lips, his eyes hidden behind his filthy
lenses.
    In turn each
bottle reveals its secret. Each holds a tiny, dead figure that he does not
recognise in its liquid embrace.
    Except one.
The end bottle stands apart from the others, untenanted. Waiting.
    And, just
beyond the door, those voices come again.

THE ICE HORSE
     
     
    They have been standing on the ice for nearly half a day now. Watching
me. I can just make them out through the frozen window that I have scraped
away. The old man finally turns and begins to walk towards the huge gate cut
into the wall of ice. The others, in deference, turn their gaze from me and
follow him.
    Perhaps they
stayed to ensure that I did not try to break through the massive plug of ice
that sealed the horse’s anus, shutting me inside. One carried a rifle; a
needless precaution. I would hardly have