MICHAEL NETHERCOTT THE BEASTLY RED LURKER A Gothic Excess IT WAS SOME THREE YEARS ago that I first became acquainted with Heywood Mudcatt of Tattermore. We were both attending a dinner party at the home of D----- and fell into conversation concerning heat boils (a subject of which I possess some knowledge accounted for by my years in the Gobi). For half an hour we amused ourselves with an exchange of boil-lore, then the dinner bell sounded and we took our places at the table. The meal, as I remember, was a splendid spread, radiating outward from the central main dish of wild duck. With much passion, all members of the party embarked upon the consumption of that drool-inspiring banquet. All, that is, save Mudcatt, who merely folded his arms and smiled. His plate sat unfulfilled, brightly naked and vaguely disturbing. Our hosts seemed unconcerned with Mudcatt's abstinence. I leaned over to D----- and whispered, "Doesn't the man eat?" "What? Oh, Mudcatt," D----- shrugged. "No, as a matter of fact he doesn't. Not in public, at any rate. Some gastronomic malady, I believe. He is a queer rotter." Unaware of our whisperings, Mudcatt continued to just sit there and smile and eat nothing. Over the next two years, I crossed paths with Mudcatt on several occasions, usually at dinner parties. Through these random encounters, I grew to actually like the fellow. His wit was of an excellent degree and his knowledge was not limited to boils. Indeed, he could discourse on a sparkling array of subjects -- ice cubes, masking tapes, pygmy architecture, nasal hygiene -- the man was an encyclopedia with limbs. And yet...and yet.... When the dinner bell pealed and the assemblage sat down to eat, I would look over at that empty disk of porcelain and at Mudcatt's folded arms and unslumping smile, and I would feel my entire being tingle with something unexplainable, something uneasy, something like...was it dread? Still, I enjoyed the maws company and when, last winter, I received a written invitation to visit Mudcatt at his estate, I accepted. What struck me as singular about the invitation was that it was for dinner. Dinner! Would I then get to see a fork lifted to that virgin smile? Would there be food upon that fork and, if so, of what nature would it be? How, for the Love of God, did Heywood Mudcatt take his nourishment? I was soon to find out. I showed up at Tattermore Estate close to dinnertime. I was received by a wizened stick-figure of a butler who led me to a comfortable drawing room, then departed to notify his master of my arrival. Mudcatt soon joined me and furnished me with some praiseworthy brandy, though he himself did not drink any. We chatted for a while about shoe polish and clothespins. As always, Mudcatt's observations were dazzling. "It seems to me," he remarked, "that 'shoe polish' is an unearned bit of nomenclature for a substance which, as far as I can tell, does precious little toward the outcome of a decently polished shoe. Why, if it were not for the grace of human motivation, the so-called 'polish' would languish uselessly in its tin or, at best, lie caked upon the surface of a shoe like some vile layer of excrement." "Hear, hear!" I cried. The man was, unquestionably, brilliant. The dinner bell rang. The bell. Was it my imagination or did that particular bell ring longer than any dinner bell I had ever heard? In point of fact, it did not ring -- it tolled. My blood went thin. I was seized by a sense of keen apprehension. What nameless repast awaited me in Mudcatt's mysterious dining chamber? "Come," he said. "It's time to eat." As if in a daze, I followed my host toward destiny. When I set eyes upon the dinner table, an audible sigh gushed out of me. There was nothing at all dreadful about the meal awaiting us; on the contrary, it was a swell spread. Turkey, ham, and fish, encampments of steaming vegetables and mounds of fresh fruit all lay sprawled out tastefully, invitingly, upon a white linen tablecloth. Candles in brass holders completed the effect. We were seated by the narrow butler, and I was served wine. Mudcatt said a few words, sotto voce, to the old man, who gave a meager bow and left the room. My host smiled at me. "Well, dig in, my friend." I complied, heaping my plate with healthy portions of each dish. I was delighted, not to say amazed, to see Mudcatt doing the same. In fact, by the time he had finished serving himself, his plate was almost lost beneath a pyramid of food. I began to laugh.... "My dear Mudcatt! I must say, it is a relief to see such evidence of your appetite. I was beginning to think...well, who knows what I thought. I'm just glad to see you have a bit of the glutton in you." Mudcatt gave a chuckle. His fork and knife were now in his hands. I was reaching for my own fork when the butler re-entered. I froze. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped like a meteor. A geyser of terror came shooting up from my lower abdomen to the roof of my head. Cradled there in the spindly arms of the old servant was a monstrously huge bottle filled to the top with a foul red substance. Mudcatt was grinning demoniacally. "You see, I like ketchup...." My heart missed a beat. "On everything!" He began to cackle. Staggering under the weight of the bottle, the old scarecrow approached his master. Mudcatt screwed off the cap and the servant tipped the lip over the pyramid of food. My mind reeled with inconceivable horror as the loathsome red ketchup oozed ravagingly over Mudcatt's plate. Like some reprobate abomination, Mudcatt plunged his knife and fork into the vile, hellish corruption that was his dinner. He plugged his mouth with the hideous food-sludge and, upon devouring the unutterable contents of his plate, he abandoned his cutlery and thrust his arm into the terrible neck of the ungodly bottle. He began feeding directly on the ghastly condiment. At this point I bolted. I ran frantically through the house searching for the elusive front door. When I glanced behind, I saw Mudcatt and the butler, smeared in red, climbing over furniture in their diabolic pursuit of me. The pair looked far less human now -- I saw them for what they were. They were in appearance something like foul, diseased earthworms with huge hell-born mandibles that dripped perversion as they moved. The whole scene was one of indescribable horror, so indescribable that I must resort to long, ornate, vague descriptions that, in truth, describe nothing, but leave the reader with a fiendish, watery, repulsive impression of many hideous syllables. I found the door and made my escape. It has been over a year since that damnable evening. Mudcatt has vanished from society and I, for the most part, am a hermit, shunning the company of my fellows. On occasion, if energetically pressed, I may attend a dinner, but even then, even then, I do not eat. I fold my arms and smile, but I do not eat.