The Ebon Room
Judson Macomb
“Long and dark eldritch evenings, I lived and listened and slept, in this wind howling deep lustrous black room of gloom—no electric bulbs embedded in the ceiling, flattened by boredom, covered by a load of stone, no birthdays, choked with idleness, as a urine pungent smell drifted throughout my cell daily, as if it was stuck in limbo like me. No stray birds, a few stray mice, while in a deep, frenzied fantasy. And never once did I blaspheme God, nor seek his invisible shield. And in the process became an absurdist, and believed that it all was meaningless, irrational but consequently, we must go on with our existence, this strained conceit in us demands we do so, thinking that we are more than what we are, or hoping we are— And waited, and I waited for shapes in the shadows to form, and sensed things of darkness near me, and after awhile, saw shrill looking cadaverous faces lingering and lurking in the air, and smelt putrid odors as it lingered likewise in invisible clouds overhead—beings, dragging their flimsy corpse like bodies to and fro, malodorously from corner to corner.
“I was young back then, filled with irony and the wonder of life. Dark rooms are not silent, doctor. All those days I watched and listened and I knew they were there. The creatures were like ebon manna falling from the sky while living those four-years in a silent panic. And with their yellow eyes I could see them clearer; they grew friendlier as time passed— in the amber twilights of my cell, created by some kind of sorcery, I do suppose, in this titan built prison, with no horizons, only a bleak and eldritch twilight, with anon wings to the eerie darkness it so dearly loved, and they even spoke to me—as they separated from one point in the room to another in their ongoing ashy like transfigurations, all these dark things: shadows, and shapes and strange things out of other worlds, out of space and time, out of a vapor like haze.
“I only got glimpses of them of course—when they talked and howled, lurked, moved about stealthily until they simply disappeared—this awful lone, that always was so still in my room, was a blessing when they came to visit me, even if they were who they were—whoever they were, as I stood the first few times—weirdly stood in a hysterical posture, and frantic—stood in an upright, pure vertical position until I got to know them better, and became at ease—became familiar with seeing them, they sounded like rushing water, far-off at sea when they spoke, as if halfway in our world, and halfway in theirs—they were, by and large, ebony shadows, with cadaverous glimpses: beings more ancient than the mountains, more diabolic than the creatures of the deep, and some were reptilian. ‘Huh!’ I said to myself, ‘it is better to mingle with the dead or half dead, since I am not allowed to mingle with the living.’ ”
I tried often to sit up erect; it was most, a most difficult task at times, after an extraordinary effort, I managed to do so, I did realize at that time I was very weak, my thoughts were confused, but my curiosity wasn’t, although I found it most difficult to orient myself in any manner, being light-headed, living in an enfeeble state of existence—dazed. But these abruptions—of what you call, unreality, allowed me to live on. You see doctor, it really wasn’t starvation that was going to kill me—I knew that from day one, but rather an extreme thirst for other life, contact; boredom you know, kills all living things faster than any disease. Thus, the roar of life is like protein to the flesh, not the complete peril of silence that would be a bitter death. You might say, during my captivity, I was in uncharted space, within the darkest reefs. Many of times I felt I died, and was revived by one or more of these creatures.
“One night—in the corner of my room, this yellow-eyed thing, reptilian thing, creature, with watermelon seeds for eyes, with a long purple shawl, or cape, something on that order—very long, you know the one, I saw him many times after this night, this first visit, he appeared to be beckoning me to come to him, in his little corner of the room, originally my room, not always did I see him but on many occasions thereafter he shared my room with me without knocking. He filled the room many a night with his chanting; it soothed me. Matter-of-fact, many of times I felt I had died, and was revived by one or more of these creatures.”
“How was your room?” questioned the doctor.
“It was long and narrow, with a tall ceiling, it was a trifle taller than I, and I’m pert near six-foot tall. This much I distinctly recall, but for the most part, it seems unreal and remote, and somehow belongs to another person other than me. In those days I often felt very dreamy and detached from everything and in particular, everybody. I found bugs very edible, after a while and I even pretended they were fruit. I can’t identify the bugs, but its portion was mouth-watering after a while.”
“You have given me a heap of weird impressions,” said the doctor, “some of which could not exist in our everyday reality. I do hope you see this more clearly now that you are out of your old environment, rest and proper nutrition intake is of course required before your abnormal reality completely disappears, and the oddity of it all. They differ—you know, from anything reasonable, through worlds unknown to us, who live in a world of matter-of-factness, or at least from anything I’ve ever encountered. I don’t want to send you to an asylum, you’ve been through enough, but you must acknowledge, that your long stay in that room contributed to these bizarre impressions.”
Consequently, in an effort to surmount his agitation, Judson Macomb started pacing the floor with vehement briskness from wall to wall in the doctor’s office.
“We are not in Germany anymore,” remarked the doctor, to his client, “you can let me know who gave you the cape, or is it a robe or was it a shawl? no one will tell the SS where you got it? And what wing were you on?”
Then Doctor R. J. Sharp saw Judson Macomb, his patient, start to tremble some, he wouldn’t or couldn’t stop. Then Judson rolled round on his back right there in the middle of his office floor—as if in some cyclopean cave, stretching out flat, his arms got entangled—a groaning from a shrill voice with some dysphonic noises came out of his mouth—indiscernible words, his eyes became a malignant red, as he tried to suppress the unpleasant moment, but he couldn’t. A sinister, ominous aching in his head prevailed; the inmost fibers of his body illumed to a purple and yellow heat, creating a near unearthly form to him, as his body vibrated like a thunder storm right then and there on the woodened floor. He held onto his head, he held onto it as if it might fall off his neck, and closed his eyes. “The room was like an alpine cliff sometimes,” he murmured, “if it wasn’t for those trans-dimensional pilgrims, I’d not be here today doctor,” he exclaimed, looking up at him. “Yes, they invaded my room, had overtaken my room but, but there I lived in a stupor, without a friend, what did the SS expect. In that room the granite walls were often drawn immeasurable nearer to me at times, as if to squeeze the life out of me like a python. I couldn’t stop them.” Then he cried out in silence with his convex and reddened eyes and looked towards the ceiling as if it was some great somber sky.
To try to break the moment, the doctor asked his patient a frivolous question, “You were known as number 545, is this correct?”
Judson breathed with difficulty. He glanced at the doctor—as he sat up, no longer a cosmic menace— soothe and exalt: “I never really liked falling to sleep back then, nor do I nowadays, because I never think I’ll wake up.”
“They were SS men, right?” asked the doctor.
Judson was now sitting up, and in a chair, he let his head droop, it seemed heavy for him, the muscles in his neck were sticking out. He turned to look out the window, there was a mild sun.
“They, the creatures and I had an obscure kind of telepathy between us, I felt assured they knew what I was thinking, what I was saying when I wasn’t saying anything out loud, and I knew what they were thinking, but not saying, out loud. We both had ramparts to each others brains.”
“Did you ever go over to help in the crematorium?” asked the doctor.
His client didn’t answer, but the doctor knew he most likely didn’t, or couldn’t, he was eighty-pounds when he was found in his room, and was near six foot tall.
“The creatures were dancing, dragging the dead like a heap of cobwebs, to and fro throughout the room, peering at me oddly, and after a few years, I got redeeming glimpses of a clear blue sky, they allowed me to see.”
“You do realize you were having hallucinations in that room, Mr. Macomb, don’t you?” remarked the doctor, knowing there were no windows in the room. And Judson closed his eyes again, remembering the stench, it was of a latrine, it floated in the air, everywhere.
“I just know this world was not my own,” replied Judson.
“Perhaps these hallucinations, and this strange-dimensional world, or worlds, with nameless beings, simple grew stranger from day to day, was created by your mind, a mad and long flash of fears, running through your mind so as to survive” said the doctor.
“Why do you say that?” asked Judson.
“Describe your guard that paced the hallway,” asked the doctor.
“I seldom seen him, but the few times I did, he had voracious eyes and a jaw long-drawn-out, and wide. And he mumbled and fumbled all the time, I heard him do so.”
“Well, first of all, you had that long shawl, cape or was it a robe wrapped around you, I mean that was the only thing you had on, when they found you, and you never saw a guard, but the first day, and that was four years before your release, and you never saw the sky, because they never took you out of that one room, and you say…” then the doctor hesitated to finish his sentence.
“The shawl, my reptilian friend, he gave it to me, is that what you wanted me to say?” asked Judson, “that my friend with the yellow irises, and black pupils the size of watermelon seeds was not really in my room, that I got it from a guard or someone else? But you said I never seen the guard or anyone else!”
“Well,” said the doctor, “isn’t that more believable than that reptilian creature in your room?” Although that was problematic also, usually political prisoners or criminals never got such things, matter-of-fact the only one that could have given him the long purple type robe, was the Commandant, and he never had one, so that was most unlikely, and out of the question. But the good doctor wanted Judson to face reality, not make up stories to his fancy. On the other hand, he had been too weak to work and was seldom brought out for exercising from his one man cell. He was actually dying. Had they had a gas chamber, he might have had a quicker death than being starved to death slowly.
“Why,” asked Judson Macomb, “why do you insist by implying it was not my friend in the room?” Then he got up, quite like, he had closed his eyes again, and was hardly breathing, scratching himself here and there, his eyes then opened, but now vacant, then turned towards the doctor, looking at his egg-shaped head, “Why?” he asked a second time.
“Because it’s not possible,” said the doctor, “you see, when they found you, you were in a cell as big as a stone coffin, in which one could neither stand nor lie—”
Written: 6-14 & 15-2006; No: 623
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