Halloween and Other Seasons

V

Bates continues this type of work for the next four months. The days drag by. Occasionally Trevor visits him; after these visits Bates’ fervor climbs to an almost manic level. Even the console seems to plead for rest. My mind is driven to emotive heights for prolonged periods of time; I am forced to survive on bits of food and water fed to me by Bates at odd and infrequent hours—he will not even allow me to remove the cable pads in fear that I may do something drastic despite the threat of horrible punishment. I could not leave my chair even if I were allowed, my body is so weak. Bates, above, pauses only for food or snatches of rest. Composition after composition is completed.

One day Bates comes to see me. It is after a visit from Trevor, and Bates bursts into my room. He comes to my chair and stands before me. He, too, is wasted and yellow; nevertheless he smiles.

“Trevor has just left,” he says in a low, weak voice. “Everything I’ve composed has received tremendous acceptance.”

I stare at him mutely.

“Look here,” he continues, pulling small bundles of credit notes from his pockets. “And there’s much more coming. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.” He pauses. “I’ve had your contract amended.”

My gaze is unmoved.

“There was nearly trouble. It’s been all right up to now, but for what I want to do next I had to be sure. I’m ready to do something larger.”

“Bates,” I say hoarsely, from deep within me. “Bates, it can’t be done. I haven’t eaten, slept—”

“I know,” he says, “but that can’t be helped. It’s in the contract and this thing must be done now. Trevor says—”

“To hell with Trevor!” I cry brokenly. “You’re destroying me. I can’t think anymore, Bates. I can’t feel. I need rest, time to think, time—”

~ * ~

“Never mind your needs! You work for me. Trevor says the public is ready for a symphonic cycle, something magnificent.” His eyes are aflame in his dead, blank face. “We must begin.”

“Bates—”

“You’re my Muse,” he snaps. “Amending that contract cost me a lot of credits; you won’t disappoint me. It’s time to begin.” He turns to leave.

I stare weakly at the curved gray wall framing Bates’ back. Words rise and die in my dry throat. Bates shuts the door and goes upstairs.

The pain hits me unexpectedly. Bates has done something to the console—some sort of modification has been made to give it even greater power capabilities. I am not even able to resist; the machine reaches right to the core of my emotions and begins to suck voraciously at them. Upstairs the console announces the opening of the work with a gigantic chord in brasses, and then settles immediately into a wrenching, twisting theme in the strings. There is an ominous percussive beat in the background, insistent, ponderous and funereal. The beat increases suddenly to a pounding, terrifying level, nearly excluding all other sound. The strings begin to lash at the beat, in staccato fashion. Now the horns join in. It is as if a hundred thousand instruments have been squeezed screaming into the console and are fighting each other and themselves to get out. The level increases, and I can hear Bates howl through my own agony. The cable pads have welded themselves to the red, raw flesh on my temples. Being, existence, is torn from me by the machine above.

I don’t know how much time passes. Existence itself is one continuous, emotive cry. The cable pads rip into me, and the console level, incredibly, is still rising. The music has become one immense, flagellating note, self-destructive and unstoppable. It is out of control. There is a roar of thunder, a burst of unbelievable pain—

I am thrown back against my chair; there has been an explosion in the room above. The wall shakes; the ceiling cracks and plaster chips flake down upon me. I lay, stick-like, broken, in my chair. There is silence.

Plaster dusts the room.

After a few minutes I am able to pull myself up. The cables break away: the wires are fused. I walk, trembling, to the door. The hallway outside is twilit; I can see the dark outline of the curving stairs against the grayness. I slowly make my way up the steps.

The door to Bates’ room is open and unhinged—it has been blown outward by the explosion. Inside all is smoke. There is a sickly smell of burnt meat and wiring. I approach the console.

Bates is slumped over the typewriter, arms outstretched, charred. He is dead. I pull him back, away from the machine. Broken black wires hang from his arms and legs. His huge white eyes are turned up into his head. His fish-like mouth is open in a frozen, lifeless cry. His tongue is black.

Slowly, with effort, I pull Bates from the stool. He collapses and tumbles to the floor, twitching. I sit down, slowly, on the stool.

I am racked with sobs.