Doctor Who_ Wonderland - Mark Chadbourn [14]
All my thoughts drifted away when I finally stood outside the Goblin's place. The mind is a powerful thing – we can scare ourselves silly with a few crazy thoughts – but I swear I was sensing something about that place beyond what my eyes were telling me. It was a regular brownstone, but obviously a freak hang-out. Psychedelic graffiti, flowers, peace signs and slogans illuminated the front, while music came out of every open window, twenty different songs at least, all in competition. There were places like it all over the Haight, but this one had a feeling of threat that made me queasy. I looked up at the black windows from which flimsy drapes billowed in the January breeze, but I couldn't see anyone.
The door was open. I stepped into a hallway that had that familiar San Francisco aroma of damp, misty mornings, but beneath it the faint taint of urine. 'Hello,' l called out quietly, then regretted the unnerving whispering effect the echoes made as they rustled along the yellowing wallpaper. I ventured along the darkened hall, the bass notes of the music coming through the walls like the sound of mysterious heavy machinery at work.
Behind the rumbling, small animal noises came from an open door down the hall to my left. I crept up cautiously and peered inside. The room was bare apart from a dirty mattress on the floorboards. On it, a couple were making love, slick with sweat, tripping. The girl was beautiful, with long blonde hair washing around her head as she stared at the ceiling with glassy eyes; she could have been sunbathing on the beach, she was so away from the moment. But the guy was unpleasant in every sense. His expression wasn't just unloving, it was fierce, as though he hated her, and his long hair and beard were matted with mud like a hobo. It struck me with faint distaste that if not for the drugs the girl would probably never have looked at him twice. Making love wasn't the right description after all.
I carried on by to the stairs, and then up them into the heart of the building. Most of the open rooms were like that first one: people tripping or whacked out, screwing yet completely disconnected. The noises that came from behind the locked doors were even more disturbing.
My mouth was dry and there was a thundering inside me matching the vibrations coming through the walls. On the third floor I found another open door. This room was filled with decaying Victorian furniture, books rotting on the shelves, heavy mildewed drapes drawn across the window, water-stained photographs and paintings on the wall. In a highbacked leather chair, a young girl watched me with staring eyes. She couldn't have been more than sixteen; the thought that she might have endured the house's debased regime put me on edge. Her brown hair was cropped in the latest style, but her face looked like it had been smeared with ash from the fire.
'Don't hurt me.' Her voice was fragile, filled with terror.
'I'm not going to hurt you' I cautiously stepped into the room and checked the shadowy corners. She was alone. As I drew closer, I could see from her pupils that she was tripping. A bad trip. Her breathing was shallow, her body rigid.
'Are you one of them?' Her eyes grew wider still.
I dropped to my knees, trying to make myself unthreatening, and crawled towards her slowly, smiling. I'd had experience of bad trips before. 'I'm here to help you, sweetie. You just take it easy.'
She jerked suddenly, snapping her head from side to side as if she'd glimpsed something in the shadows. 'What's there?' She was on the edge of hysteria.
'Just me, sweetie. Here to look after you.'
'No –'
'Just me.' I took her hand;