The Deep Woods: Part Four

The interior was redolent of perfume and a Kougra owner, whose memory was separated from the present by some incalculable space of time. All of the partygoers seemed to be denizens of the Deep Woods: there were a ghost Pteri, Nimmo, Lutari, and Acara; a zombie Cybunny, Zafara, and Uni; a Halloween Grundo; a transparent Skeith – and surely more than even these ones, but Phil certainly lacked mind enough to record each identity while mingling. Someone was a seamstress, someone else a carpenter, a violinist here, a shepherd there... when each was questioned, they exhibited no familiarity with their professions beyond certain clichés and trite jokes. Furthermore, each individual was an anatomical oddity: elongated faces, hollow cheeks, and asymmetrical features were commonplace among the revelers. But Phil laughed and exchanged winks all the same.

      Had the mansion offered only pleasant acquaintanceships, the Meepit may have slipped away before midnight. Given the availability of NeoCola, cakes, custards, nachos, and punch, coupled with the hunger that bit at his stomach, Phil became a perpetual, unwitting victim of the mansion's grasp. But of course this was not known. For his ignorance, Phil danced and flitted among the other party-goers and made brief, banal exchanges with them between the laughter and swigs of cola. Had he been more alert, the Meepit would have picked up on the peculiarity of the music, which was rhythmless (and hence inspired much variety in terms of dance) and appeared to descend continually without growing discernibly lower in pitch. Subjected again to reality's pull, Phil felt his legs dwindle in endurance and his breaths grow short and rough. As such, he sought a seat on a dark couch that was situated in the far corner of the room. As he gulped down a glass of water, he saw that he was not alone.

      Beside Phil sat a ghost Lutari. His head, however, appeared to be taking flight from his form, for which reason the Meepit made to retreat not only from the couch or the room, but the entire horrid mansion itself. It would have been a waste, though, for beneath the ghost-mask stood a red Lutari's plump face with curled lips. And then it all made perfect sense. The hideousness and deformation of the other revelers was no natural effect; rather, the nature of the party itself rested on artifice, on the generation of a disturbing pretense by means of which to mask some other motive, Phil reasoned. Here was the tripping point: was it an act of liberation from boredom, or a cheap guise to protect a more sinister interest, or some sort of metric through which the host could measure apprehension? Then of course came the second realization – that he himself bore no costume. Thankfully, a diversion emerged.

      "So what brings you to the Deep Woods, Meepit?" the Lutari asked. "We don't see much of the likes of refined petpets 'round these parts."

      "Oh?" Phil replied, "Oh, that's actually a pretty good question." There had been something vague about a Kougra, but he did not feel inclined to bring that up. "Oh, uh... well, hm. It's more – no, wait, um..."

      "Are you gonna keep sputtering, or is there any answer floating around in that there head of yours?"

      "A Hissi! Yeah, a Hissi asked me for a favor, and I'm just trying to help him out a bit."

      The Lutari gave him immediate, penetrating eye-contact, marred only by much rapid blinking from both sides. "Did you just say a Hissi? Did you really just say a Hissi?" A nod. "Boy, you better hope that Hissi's name wasn't Carl or-" A gulp. "Well I'll be a Mirgle's uncle. It may benefit you to know that old Carl's one of them big ole liars. Pathological one, at that. So you'd better be careful 'bout doin' any favors for a guy like that, you hear?"

      The conversation then tapered away into nothingness. Phil observed a moment's rest before he heard an inquiry: "So what brings you to the Deep Woods, Meepit?"

      "Wait, what? I just told you that a minute ago."

      "Are you gonna keep sputtering, or is there any answer floating around in that there head of yours?" This met silence. "Did you just say a Hissi? Did you really just say a Hissi? Boy, you better hope that Hissi's name wasn't Carl or... Well I'll be a Mirgle's uncle. It may benefit you to know that old Carl's one of them big ole liars. Pathological one, at that. So you'd better be careful 'bout doin' any favors for a guy like that, you hear?" The Lutari had grown entirely indifferent to the Meepit's response or lack thereof. In fact, he repeated himself again, and once more, and so on. And worse, he was not alone in such repetition – when any singular party-goer arrested the Meepit's attention for the span of five minutes, he observed that his or her initial action matched precisely its final counterpart. Indeed, the cheat was so fine that the only way Phil had of knowing when the loop began was through the Lutari's words, which had only one logical order to them, for even the falling tones which threatened to infringe on the Meepit's sanity were echoes of their pasts.

      This was beyond enough. Phil rose from the sofa to wade through the automata, past the punch, treats, and delights, beyond a clock that spun in cycles on the wall, until the front door stood before him. Or perhaps it was something that had once been a door; indeed, it bore no knob, no odd markings, on mail-slot, no peep-hole, no excessive wear. It was indistinguishable from any other wall, but Phil swore to himself that it was at this precise location that he had first entered the mansion. "Great," he thought, "just what I needed."

      Past the party again and up the stairs led him to a long, blue corridor whose walls were plastered with surrealists' décor. There hung a depiction of a Miamouse with a Elephante painted in its eye; a sketch of swords including a shiny Sword of Skardsen, a frozen Sword of Reif, and a bulky Sword of Ari; a windowpane painted onto a mirror; and pets of scarcely imaginable colors that Phil dared not stare at too long at the eccentric's utopia. His gaze eventually sunk into the empty space in front of him. He trudged further through the hall and closed his eyes entirely, for which reason he promptly crashed into a wall. There could have been nothing more merciful at all than this stark left turn, he thought. But then another, a turn right, a stair, a corridor, another stair, a left turn – all came with no sign of cyclicality.

      Perhaps he was dreaming. He attempted to dismiss the thought but to descend into a cold sweat after failing to do so. It was, after all, a distinct possibility: he had no recollection before a certain time, the events of a supposed reality did not coincide with any feasible expectation, he had not slept in an eternity – this much was a lie, he admitted, but the difference between truth and its complement was hardly absolute; further, if his hypothesis was correct, then a little faulty evidence here and there would harm no one. He tried to will himself back awake to no avail. An entire world founded on nothing simply had to collapse on itself at the slightest provocation. It did not.

      Phil sat down on a rainbow carpet in a clashing room and sought out, within every droplet of memory, any undeniable inconsistency in the past hours or days. There were countless instances – there had to be – of such impossibilities occurring – that alone was why none came to him, for they were so commonplace as to seem unremarkable – ah, he had it figured out now! "I know it all! I know the riddle. The jig is up – I am convinced of it!" he shouted at no one as he began to pace about the room. All of the pointless artwork – the sculptures, drawings, paintings – were smashed against the floor, unleashing hideous ignorance and barbarism unto the mansion's residents. He hopped about the room; he fled from it; he retreated back into it; he laughed in its face and at himself and at the absurdity of it all. There was a party downstairs – or was it up? – that could not exist, but he had seen it with his own eyes despite being indisputably awake. Phil curled up into a ball on the floor and began to rock himself back and forth as gently as possible.

      "Enough, enough, enough..." came a voice from the far side of the room. The Meepit turned perhaps an ear and an eye in its general direction to reveal a veiled figure approaching him. Phil did not need to see her disfigured face, her skin-like cloak, or any other aspect of her to realize that the voice belonged to the witch he had been seeking. He cackled to himself some more.

To be continued...