The Year's Best Horror Stories XXII
Karl Edward Wagner

Gregory Nicoll

T.E.D. Klein

Adam Meyer

Joey Froehlich

Dennis Etchison

Chet Williamson

Ramsey Campbell

Wayne Allen Sallee

Sean Doolittle

F. A. McMahan

Paul Pinn

Robert Devereaux

Mark McLaughlin

Joel Lane

Scott Thomas

Kim Newman

Del Stone Jr.

Lillian Csernica

Deidra Cox

Conrad Williams

Nina Kiriki Hoffman

Simon Clark

Charles M. Saplak

Jeffrey Thomas

D. F. Lewis

Nancy Kilpatrick

David Langford

Lisa Tuttle

Kim Antieau

Nicholas Royle

Terry Lamsley


The Year's Best Horror Stories #22











“…THE JUICIEST BLOODFEST, THE MOST IRONIC CONTE CRUEL, THE SUBTLEST EVOCATION OF WISPY HORROR.”

    

—Washington Post Book World







Return, if you dare, to the dark realms of terror with intrepid guide Karl Edward Wagner as he once again seeks out the most fear-inspiring tales of the year. Cower in horror as Jack the Ripper reaches out from the grave to take bloody vengeance on a rock band… even as a “retired” serial killer experiences the perfect end to a perfect life… while an injured woman receives a blood transfusion only to find she has lost control of her will… and a garbage dump spawns a malignant new breed of life—or death…

Join Dennis Etchison, Ramsey Campbell, Wayne Allen Sallee, T.E.D. Klein, Lisa Tuttle, and their fellow masterminds of the macabre on this year’s unforgettable, chill-packed journey into the heart of the horrific!

OPEN THE CREAKING DOOR OF TERROR AND ENTER A WORLD WHERE FEAR IS YOUR ONLY COMPANION…


A kid’s camping supplies turn out to be not quite what the catalog advertised…

A pulp writer’s imagination really gets the better of him…

A suburban dog-run turns out to be an exercise in terror…

A juror’s identification with a convicted murderer becomes more than simple sympathy…

TRAVEL INTO REALMS WHERE NIGHTMARES LURK AT EVERY CORNER. THE ONLY TOUR-GUIDE YOU’LL NEED IS…


THE YEAR’S BEST HORROR: XXII







THE YEAR’S BEST HORROR STORIES 22

Edited by Karl Edward Wagner


To Richard O’Brien

It’s just a jump to the left—



















INTRODUCTION: BUT IS IT HORRIFIC?


So, then. What is a horror story?

You’re about to find out, inasmuch as you’re holding thirty-one of them in your hand right now.

The fact that you’ve picked up this book, The Year’s Best Horror Stones: XXII, would indicate that you are a fan of horror fiction or at least just curious. Could be that you have a complete set of signed Arkham House books (well…), or that you’ve just watched Halloween Nightmare on Friday the 13th for the sixth time and are torn between buying this book or another chainsaw. Regardless. Take this book home with you. Remember to pay for it; you don’t want thirty-one horror writers coming round for their missing commissions. That would be a horror story.

Which goes back to our question.

Not a new question, of course. Your dauntless editor has sat in on many panels and discussions where this question received the attention of lots of writers and editors. I’ve brought it up before in earlier volumes of The Year’s Best Horror Stories. Why bring it up again? Because the times they are a-changing. Perhaps.

Once upon a time horror stories were easy to categorize. Look for haunted ruins, creepy old houses, ghostly figures, bloodthirsty monsters, forbidden old tomes, eccentric scholars, teenagers misbehaving, teenagers dismembered—and a chainsaw-wielding vampire and a flesh-eating zombie or two, and you’ve got your genre defined from Gothic to gore.

Not that easy anymore.

This past autumn I showed one of my own stories to Stephen Jones and Ramsey Campbell, editors of the Best New Horror series. Steve commented that the story was good, but not horrific. Ramsey wrote back that it was “very powerful, not to say bleak,” and recommended it. As it turned out, they both agreed to reprint the story and I put down the sawed-off shotgun, but I found their reactions interesting. The story, “Passages,” was in part autobiographical and was nonfantasy. I found it horrifying, but I may have been too close. I wondered at their differing reactions. Obviously no two editors respond the same way to the same story. Otherwise all of the current year’s-best anthologies would have identical contents (when, in fact, there is virtually no overlap), and we’d all be bored.

Later, over a pint or two, Steve and I were comparing notes concerning the year’s catch in horror stories. I mentioned a story I meant to reprint here (It’s in here, but I forget which one—really!), and Steve said again that it was a good story but not horrific. All right by me, mate, since I’m competing for space in your book. But it got me wondering.

What is horror?

Lisa Tuttle, whose story, “Turning Thirty,” appears in this book, wrote back: “Well, of all the stories I thought might at some time be chosen for The Year’s Best Horror Stories, “Turning Thirty” was certainly not one. Not that I’m unaware of the horror implicit in the story, but…”

Again, nonfantasy—but when I described her story to science-fiction writer David Drake and to a knowledgeable woman fan of the genre, both of them shivered. Open-mouthed. Horrific?

Joel Lane, whose story, “Thicker Than Water,” also appears in this volume, observed regarding The Year’s Best Horror Stories: XXI from last year: “This seemed a more downbeat and atmospheric collection of stories than usual; I wondered if you had deliberately made it that way, or if that is simply the direction in which short horror fiction is heading.”

Right the second time, Joel.

After fifteen years as editor of The Year’s Best Horror Stories, I’m seeing a change in the wind. (Read a few thousand horror stories during the year, and you’re sure to start seeing things.) To wit:

The enormous proliferation of small press publications has fostered a whole new generation of horror writers.

Those writers who were good got better with experience; some of them now rank among the best in the horror genre.

The axis of horror is shifting with that maturity, and with that shift comes a new concept of horror fiction.

True. There are still tons of stories to be read each year about the never-learning massacred teenagers, the ever-flowing body fluids, the ever-hungry vampire/zombie/monsters, the ever-slashing serial killer. Some of these stories are damn good, and you’ll discover a few of them here. However, the same-old-same-old, if not in retreat, seems increasingly to be passed over by many writers in favor of exploring new and forbidding themes.

Once again. What is horror?

In trying to categorize the stories in The Year’s Best Horror Stories: XXII, your fearless editor is finally at a loss for words. Most of these defy definition. Some are straightforward straight-to-the-heart horror; many I can only warn you are strange and disturbing. Best label I can do.

Edward Bryant, in his review of last year’s The Year’s Best Horror Stories in Locus, remarked: “The spectrum of Wagner’s selections is tonally wide” and recommends the book for “the catholicism of the contents.” It would seem that Ed would agree that horror fiction is a much more diverse genre today than in the past. Maybe it’s turning mainstream. Maybe it’s a river running over its banks. A river of blood. A tide of fear.

Whatever your tastes and theories, slash or shiver, here are thirty-one of the best horror stories from 1993. As usual, over one-third of the authors here are appearing in the series for the first time. Growth and development. New voices. New definitions. New hands and new ways to twist the knife.

But is it horrific?

You’re about to find out.

Welcome to The Year’s Best Horror Stories: XXII.






    

—Karl Edward WagnerChapel Hill, North Carolina









THE RIPPER’S TUNE

by Gregory Nicoll







Born in Concord, New Hampshire on April 22, 1958, Gregory Nicoll has since settled down in Atlanta, Georgia, where he pursues his interests in Sam Peckinpah films, dark beer, hot chili, splatter films, rock music, and Volkswagens. Weird Mix. His fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies as well as in the small press, and he has written extensively for the film magazines, Fangoria and Gorezone. Nicoll also serves proudly as a charter member on the Foreign Films Committee of Joe Bob Briggs’ Drive-In Board of Experts.

In his last appearance in The Year’s Best Horror Stories, Nicoll had returned his contract with a photo of his beloved Volkswagen Rabbit pickup truck, badly damaged from a close encounter with a six-point whitetail buck. This year his contract came back with a photo of the same pickup, repaired in the interim and recently with a smashed fender. Writes Nicoll: “Do I have to crash that truck every year to get into your anthology? (I’ll do it till hell freezes over, or you say different.)” Wonder what he ran into this time.





“Well,” said Dark Annie, “what do you think of it, Liz?”

Long Liz ran her hand appreciatively up the length of the bass guitar’s neck. Its body was shaped like a screaming skull, the fretboard an extended arm. The peghead was a twisted skeletal hand, its irregularly spaced tuning pegs sculpted as heavy-gauge nails.

“In-fucking-credible!” Long Liz gasped. She shook her head disbelievingly. Her short red hair bobbed and the little skeleton earrings she wore in both ears rattled. “Where’d ya get it?”

Dark Annie (nee Joan Thomas) brushed back the errant shock of purple hair which continually spilled over her forehead. “The shop where Karl works,” she said, “and if it hadn’t been for that last check from Moonlight, there’s no way I could’ve afforded it.”

Long Liz (nee Pamela Elizabeth Jones) passed the guitar back to her. “Just think of all the great gear we can score once we sign to a big label.”

The dressing room door banged open, admitting a blast of cold air and the sound of a stirring crowd. Jackie Slash (nee Tammy Mills) leaned in, smiling. Her long blonde hair was fluffed up magnificently and her wide blue eyes gleamed. “Are you cunts ready to rock’n’roll?”

It was something of a sore point with Jackie and the Rippers that Gary, their manager, had held them back from the public for so long. “You need more time to develop,” he explained patiently, month after month. “When you make your debut you’ve got to be the greatest band this city has ever seen!” He’d not even let them do a video. “The promo photos are all they need to see for now. Let’s keep the suspense building.”

Meanwhile their single on the tiny Moonlight Records label had gone back for six re-pressings, made the dance-rock and alternative/college radio charts for 32 straight weeks, had been voted Single of the Year in both The Village Voice and Rolling Stone’s critics’ polls, and had been licensed for inclusion in no less than three compilation albums. A remixed 12-inch edition of the single (featuring a different and even more provocative cover photo) was due out in three weeks. The only thing keeping Jackie and the Rippers from being the hottest group in the country—and from getting signed to a major label—was one simple technicality.

They had never, ever played a live concert.

Until now.

Sure, they were only the support group—the Wandering Jews were the nominal headliners tonight—but it was common street talk that better than half the audience had come only to see them. Jackie and the Rippers. Hard rock that scraped the cutting edge like a whetstone, and that stung like a razor.

Karl handed Jackie her red Gibson Firebird. “I changed the high E string for you. Hope a gauge nine will do.”

She grinned, nodded, and slung the axe around her arm.

Gary leaned out onstage and signaled the sound and lights crew. Immediately the house lights dimmed. The crowd screamed.

“We want the Rippers! We want the Rippers!” they chanted.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” roared the emcee. “Presenting… for the first time anywhere…”

They sprinted onstage, capes flowing out behind them. Jackie and Annie plugged in their guitars while Liz took her seat behind the drum kit and found her sticks. In the darkness it wasn’t easy.

“… Jackie and the Rippers!”

A single spotlight winked on, framing Jackie’s face in a disc of light.

“ ’Ello, dearies!” she shouted.

The crowd came totally unglued. They shrieked, yelled, whistled. More than 150 different voices shouted the titles of the two songs on their single. One young man with a mohawk haircut scrambled up onto stage and lunged toward Jackie, his hands outstretched. Gary and Karl ran interference.

Jackie beamed. She was basking in it, eating it with a spoon, and loving every sweet precious fleeting sound. “We’re Jackie and the Rippers,” she said, “and tonight, we’re gonna smash you!”

Liz pounded both sticks on her floor toms and laid down a machinegun beat. Annie joined her on the bass, setting up a propulsive rhythm. As the stage lights came up full, Jackie leaped into the air and ripped a savage chord from her Gibson with a windmill stroke delivered while her feet were still high off the stage.

The song was “Smash You,” the fastest number in their repertoire. And it sounded good.

The second tune was even better—a killer cover of the old Blondie song “Sex Offender.” Jackie’s voice had been likened to Debbie Harry’s by some critics, although a more accurate comparison would have been Patsy Cline’s. Patsy Cline, however, never sang anything like this.

And so it went through the set: “Bend Me, Shape Me,” “Let’s Have a War,” “Gotta Keep A-Rockin’,” “I Love a Man in a Uniform,” “Walkin’ the Beat,” “Venus in Furs,” “Slaughter on Tenth Avenue,” “In the Past,” and “Streets of London.” They played hard enough to splinter three drumsticks, snap two guitar strings (something about Jackie and high E just didn’t agree), and pop one string on Annie’s skeleton bass. They played fast enough to keep the crowd in a continuous frenzy. And they played loose and raw enough to make Beethoven roll over.

Jackie and the Rippers closed the set by performing the B-side of their single, “Pretty Maids All in a Row.” It was really a showcase for Liz, a “Wipeout”-style drum piece which let her display some of the most intense percussion work the city’s rock fans had ever witnessed. No Vanilla Fudge tedium here—the tune was fast and musical, catchy and melodic, even though its principal instrument was the drumkit. Jackie and Annie joined in on guitars only during the chorus, where Jackie would deliver the song’s sole vocal: a quick cry of, “Catch me when you can, Mister Lusk!” which she let loose when all the instruments simultaneously stopped dead during the electric three-second tacet at the refrain’s end.

The song completed, they marched triumphantly offstage to the tumultuous cheering and applause of the crowd. They hadn’t played the A-side of their record, “Lonely Nights in Whitechapel.” This was intentional. It was a trick—part of Gary’s strategy—a stunt for which an experienced band might be crucified, but one which a fresh, young band could get away with. By omitting their one and only hit from the set, they had guaranteed themselves an encore.

The precaution proved unnecessary; the cheering which greeted their reappearance was harder and heavier than before. It continued for almost two full minutes and might have gone on longer if Jackie hadn’t beckoned for silence.

“This next song,” she said, “is one that I’m sure most of you—”

“Lone! Ly! Nights! In! White! Chap! El!” they chanted. “Lone! Ly! Nights! In! White! Chap! El!”

“—have heard. It’s been out for about a year now—”

“Lone! Ly! Nights! In! White! Chap! El!”

“—and it’s been doin’ real well for us. It’s called…” She paused, smiling broadly, and held the microphone down to a short girl with white-orange-white hair who was almost crushed against the stage monitors by the surging mob.

“Lonely Nights in Whitechapel!” the girl shrieked.

Liz struck up the drumbeat and Annie pumped out the bass line.

Jackie stuck the microphone back on its post and danced around the stage with her guitar, her cape flying out behind, as her bandmates played the song’s hypnotic instrumental intro. As the intro concluded, Jackie picked out a two-note melody on her (freshly replaced) high E string and let the last note hang in the air, lingering like a ghost through the phenomenon of electronic sustain. Then she spun back around, pressing her lips close to the knob end of the microphone, and began to sing:
		Eight little hookers with no hope of heaven,








She chopped out a barrage of eight fast power chords (A-A, A-D, A-D-E-A) before singing the second line:
		Cops may save one, then there’ll be seven,








She repeated the chord sequence. The crowd was dancing en masse, many of the fans shouting the lyrics along with her as she sang.
		Seven little hookers begging for a shilling,



		One stays in Henage Court, then there’s a killing!








Liz and Dark Annie kicked the rhythm into high gear for the chorus. The song’s tempo suddenly, dramatically doubled.
		Loooooonely nights in Whitechapel,



		Can make a lady take to the streets,








All three of the musicians were singing now, the rhythm section backing Jackie on the chorus.
		Loooooonely nights in Whitechapel,



		Can make a lady careless who she meets!



		Loooooonely nights in Whitechapel,



		One more is lying bleeding in the streets…








In eleven months of intense rehearsals, Jackie and the Rippers had never sounded as good as they did right now. And they knew it. They were smiling at each other, their instruments locked in perfect union, the music flowing like liquid magic from their hands.
		Six little hookers glad to be alive,



		One cuddles up to Jack, then there are five.



		‘Four’ and ‘whore’ rhyme fine, it’s true;



		Jack goes to work again, then there are two.








Backstage after their set, Liz and Dark Annie hugged each other as they tumbled elatedly against the cold walls of their dressing room. Gary popped a champagne cork and Karl passed around the glasses. He had one left over.

“Where’s Jackie?”

About fifteen minutes later they found her at the bar across the street, surrounded closely by a group of admirers. Gary shooed them out the door. Karl made sure they stayed there.

Jackie set her can of malt liquor down on the counter. There were two more beside it, one of them already drained dry. “Christ, did you see that guy out there tonight? Christ, did you see him?”

“What’d he look like?” asked Liz. “I couldn’t see anything from back behind the cymbals. The glare, ya know.”

“He looked… well… he looked creepy. Like one of those devils in those old-time pictures, those whatchamacallits, uh, woodcuts.”

They walked back across the street together, bootheels clicking on the asphalt. It was late. The moon loomed large and bright in the clear night sky, stars winking.

“This dude you saw,” said Liz, “did he do something, or was it just the way he looked?”

“Both,” Jackie answered quickly. “The worst was when we were playing ‘Venus in Furs.’ He pointed at me.”

“Big fat hairy deal,” groaned Liz. “Everybody in the whole fuckin’ club was pointing at us.”

“Not like this,” said Jackie. She shivered and took another slug from her malt liquor can. “It was a real mad kind of pointing. Like he was out to get me or something. He made me break a string,”

“You always break strings. It’s that note-bending you do.”

“The first time was note-bending. The second was him.”

“What was this cat wearing?” asked Gary. “Did he have a mask on or something?”

She shook her head. “No, he had a real face. And he was wearing a cape and a Sherlock Holmes hat.”

“A deerstalker,” Gary muttered. “Sounds like this cat was dressed as Jack the Ripper.”

Jackie nodded. “Yeah… yeah! He was Jack the Ripper!”

Their van, a bright red Ford Econoline painted with the band’s logo on each side, was parked out behind the auditorium. It listed grotesquely to one side. Three of its tires had been slashed.

“I bet it was The Wandering Jews,” said Liz.

“No,” Jackie said, shaking her head slowly. “It was Jack the Ripper.”

Dark Annie crouched down by the left front wheel. “Eh, what’s this shit? Somebody wrote something down here—scratched it into the paint.”

Gary pushed her aside. “It says: ‘Yu better stop playing mi songges’.”

“See there,” said Jackie. “I told you. It was Jack the Ripper.”

Gary shrugged. “Well, you know where I got those lyrics for your songs, don’t you?”

Liz shrugged. “From that little paperback about Jack the Ripper, right?”

Two weeks later Jackie and the Rippers played their first headlining gig. Gary wanted The Wandering Jews to open the show for them, but the Jews’ manager never returned his phone calls. The Yellow Snowmen did the honors.

“I went out and took a look at the crowd,” said Dark Annie as she walked into the dressing room. “I think your friend with the itchy index finger is back.”

Jackie dropped her beer bottle. It shattered on the concrete, spreading hissing foam across the floor. “He is?”

Dark Annie nodded, her skeleton earrings rattling. “Yep. And he brought his brothers this time. All five hundred of them.”

“What do you mean?”

Dark Annie shrugged. “Well, I mean that about half the guys in the crowd are dressed like Jack the Ripper, most of ’em with rubber knives. At least I hope they’re rubber. Security must be goin’ apeshit. It’s a madhouse out there. Real horrorshow.”

The band went onstage a few minutes early. The Yellow Snowmen had been booed off midway through their set.

The girls opened with “Streets of London” and from the first note the crowd was theirs. It was an almost perfect show—new, well-oiled drumsticks and heavier gauge guitar picks (and high E strings) prevented midperformance accidents, although Karl was kept quite busy retuning Dark Annie’s custom skeleton bass. The only noticeable false note in the performance that night came during the final verse of “Lonely Nights in Whitechapel”:
		Two little hookers, shiverin’ with fright,



		Seek a cozy doorway in the middle of the night.



		Jack’s knife flashed, then there’s but one,



		And the last one’s the ripest for Jack’s idea of fun!








On the final line, Jackie’s voice seemed to catch on the name “Jack”—and as she made the first downstroke in the salvo of power chords at the lyric’s conclusion, the tip of her guitar pick completely missed the strings. Fortunately Dark Annie’s bass was miked loud enough to take up the slack, keeping the chop-chop rhythm steady.

“What happened out there at the end?” Long Liz asked afterwards during the backstage hubbub, adding, “Don’t tell me it was Jack the Ripper.”

Jackie took a slug from a bottle of Wild Turkey before she answered. “That fucker pointed at me, just like the last time.”

“Forget it, Jackie. He’s probably just some geek working for The Wandering Jews. As long as you keep letting him break your concentration during shows, even if it’s just for a second, you’re giving him exactly what he wants.”

Jackie took a long, deep draw from the bottle.

Long Liz stood up. “And givin’ head to that Turkey isn’t gonna help anything.”

Jackie walked out of the dressing room, bottle in hand.

It was the last time they ever saw her alive.

Half an hour later Karl found her in the stairwell at the far end of the backstage area, “with her belly opened up like it was a suitcase.” The Fulton County coroner later determined she’d died before the mutilations began. Somebody’d strangled her. They used a guitar string.

A high E.

On the wall beside her corpse, the murderer had written something in her blood: “The Jews are nott the bande that will be blamed for nuthing.”

The detectives working the case immediately descended on the four members of The Wandering Jews, but cleared them within hours. The Jews had been playing a sold-out date at a club in South Carolina at the time of the killing. Their alibi was irrefutable. They had 623 witnesses.

A week after the murder, Gary received a small parcel mailed to his home address. It contained a dried lump of flesh. A bloodstained note enclosed said, “Them is mi sonnges yu were playing. Never play them agin.”

The police were unable to trace the package, but their forensic joes matched the bloodtype to Jackie’s.

“The only thing they’ve really figured out for sure,” Gary told the surviving Rippers, “is that the killer is definitely left-handed.”

“Oh, that really narrows it down, doesn’t it?” said Dark Annie, shaking her head in disbelief. The shock of purple hair flopped down over her forehead.

“Yeah,” Liz muttered. She dabbed a tissue to her eyes. “Now it’s narrowed down to what? Only a few million, maybe a few billion suspects?”

Gary nodded slowly. “I know it’s not much to go on, but there’s one thing about it that’s sorta important—a hundred years ago the London police were pretty sure that the real Jack the Ripper was left-handed. The cops told me something about pursuing that angle.”

Dark Annie stomped on the floor with her bootheel. “Fuckin’ terrific. They’re gonna go out lookin’ for a left-handed guy who’s dead and buried? That oughta make it real easy to find the sicko who killed Jackie.”

“Yeah,” said Liz. “Somebody who’s left-handed and dead. Could be anyone from Billy the Kid to Jimi Hendrix.”




At first Gary tried to keep the story quiet, holding back the details from the rock press. But when absurdly distorted rumors began to surface in some of the more widely distributed fanzines—and when the band’s single suddenly became a nationwide sensation as a result of the attendant publicity—he switched tracks and decided to milk the story for all it was worth. A cassette of the final concert, recorded off the mix board, was remastered and immediately released on Moonlight Records. It sold briskly, and when Jackie and the Rippers were featured on the cover of Spin the next month, Gary’s phone rang off the hook with major labels making offers on the rights to reissue the record under their own imprint.

A deal was struck. Within 60 days, Warner Brothers put out The Final Encore by Jackie and the Rippers on their Sire Records affiliate. It hit the top ten on the Billboard charts just three weeks later, a feat accomplished with the aid of a hastily assembled video made up from publicity photos and a reel of sloppy camcorder footage that Karl had shot at one of their rehearsals. Tour offers poured in.

Gary licked his lips. “Call yourselves the Rippers. No Jackie. Just the Rippers.”

Anne nodded. “So far so good. What else? A new guitarist?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But the way I see it, for now anyway, it’s just the two of you. Liz can switch to guitar; we’ll scrap the drums for a little while. And I’m talkin’ acoustic here.”

A month later they were ready.

The house was full. The established fans, the recent converts, the curious, the ghoulish, the record company reps, and the press. The mood in the crowd was electric, but strangely subdued. Only a brief cheer passed through the hall as the lights went down.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the emcee’s voice, “Sire Records recording artists, the Rippers!”

Applause.

A large overhead spotlight cast a disc of light on the stage floor. Two black barstools stood there, each with a Martin acoustic guitar propped beside it. Long Liz and Dark Annie entered from opposite sides, each wearing a hooded black robe and moving somberly toward their instrument. They took their seats on the stools and lifted the guitars to their laps.

Dark Annie brushed her hood back.

There was a loud gasp from near the front of the crowd, and a buzz passed quickly through the multitude.

Dark Annie’s purple hair was gone. She was shaved bald.

And so was Long Liz, who pulled back her own hood a moment later. “Because we remember Jackie,” she said, “we’d like—”

Annie completed the sentence. “—to do some very special songs tonight, in her honor.” She ran her pick down the 12 strings of her guitar and slowly, beautifully, began to play the melody to Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apart Again,” her voice heavy with emotion as she mimicked the breathy vocals of Joy Division’s suicidal singer, Ian Curtis.

Long Liz joined in, playing rhythm on a six-string and providing backing vocals. There were tears in her eyes.

The crowd watched in hushed awe. Hardly anyone moved throughout the entire 80-minute set.

And what a set.

Each song had been carefully selected—every one of them a haunting tune made popular by a rock star who’d died prematurely. “Three Steps to Heaven” by Eddie Cochran (car crash). “Sad Mood” by Sam Cooke (gunshot). “Dock of the Bay” by Otis Redding (plane crash). “Heartbreak Hotel” by Elvis Presley (drugs). “No Matter What” by Badfinger (hanging). “Lost Woman” by the Yardbirds (electrocution). “Rave On” by Buddy Holly (plane crash). “Piece of My Heart” by Janis Joplin (drugs).

And more.

Each song played with somber reverence on the two mellow instruments and sung clearly, with heartfelt passion by Dark Annie.

The crowd remained silent through the performance. The only sound they made was an occasional cough or, more frequently, a faint sob. Their applause didn’t begin until almost 15 full seconds after the two girls left the stage.

The chanting began very slowly, but it built to a tremendous roar. “We want the Rippers! We want the Rippers!”

Walking back onto the stage, gripping each other’s hands tightly, Liz and Annie faced the chanting multitude and beckoned for silence. When it finally came, Annie said only, “Listen and you might hear Jackie tonight.”

They played “Lonely Nights in Whitechapel” as an instrumental.

In the dressing room afterward, Dark Annie was the first to speak. “He was out there,” she said. “I saw him. The one who points.”

Liz plopped down into a chair. “When?”

“Right there at the end of ‘Lonely Nights.’ He pushed up front and pointed. Just like Jackie said he pointed at her. He was pointing at me like that!” Annie started to cry.

Liz went over and put her arms around her. “Maybe it was just some sickie who read about that pointing stuff in the papers and figured he’d scare us.”

Gary shook his head. “No way. I anticipated that a long time ago. The pointing bit was one of the few things I managed to keep from the press.”

“Annie, I think you should have a good strong drink—but just one—and go straight home.”

She did.

The neighbors found her early the next morning.

She’d been tied to the back railing of her apartment building, her hands bound with guitar strings. The coroner estimated that the murderer spent more than a quarter of an hour working on her with his knife. The worst was what he’d done after he killed her.

The police couldn’t find him. What they did find was another note, written in the same ragged script.

It said, “I told yu to stoppe playing mi songges.”

A year later, having unearthed no further clues, they retired the case.




“Gary,” Long Liz shrieked, hysterical with anger, “get it through your goddamn concrete skull once and for all—I am never, ever going to play onstage again! You got that straight?”

“Okay, okay, okay. But just listen to me. Just listen.”

She did. Not at first, though. It took years.

Long Liz reverted to her birthname and became Pam Jones, a wildly successful session drummer. Her shaved hair grew back and she groomed it into a fashionable mohawk. She left Atlanta and took an apartment in Los Angeles, where Gary managed to get her some work right away doing percussion for the soundtracks of low budget movies. She played drums on two songs recorded for a Peter Gabriel tribute album, cut a hit single with Madonna, did a few sessions with Aerosmith, and filled in for an ailing drummer at a Barbara Streisand date when she happened to be hanging around the studio one afternoon. Sometimes she got credit on the records; sometimes she didn’t. But she always got paid. Handsomely.

She met a lot of people, and offers came in all the time. Would she like to join this band or that? Some years it seemed that any girl group—from lightweight popsters to heavy metal sirens—who needed to replace a departed member would call her before they’d try anyone else. She always refused.

Liz made plenty of money off studio work. Concerts, tours, clubs—she didn’t need them. She was rich and successful. Musician magazine even featured her on its cover and did a seven-page article about her career, with a full checklist of her recorded output and a small sample CD—bound right into the magazine—which demonstrated two of her specialized melodic drum licks.

Liz found that she’d become a living legend. Her name was a recurring feature in music magazines’ annual polls of outstanding drummers. Her style was widely imitated, and her halting efforts at songwriting—the occasional filler track on another artist’s album—were invariably given prominent mention in reviews.

Significantly, however, there were no cover versions of either “Lonely Nights in Whitechapel” or “Pretty Maids All in a Row.” Not even one.

Not even Muzak—that omnivorous corporate consumer of musical compositions, that ubiquitous purveyor of “elevator music” which homogenized everything from The Rolling Stones and Iggy Pop to The Strawberry Alarm Clock and The Clash—not even Muzak would re-record them.

Liz discovered that a rumor had spread though the industry. A dark, ugly rumor. A rumor whispered—never spoken aloud—by everyone from studio janitors to the major recording artists of the day: The two songs on Jackie and the Rippers’ single were cursed. So while the single became a radio airplay standard and eventually went triple-platinum, no musician ever dared to record their own version of either of its sides.




It was 11 years before Liz and Gary saw each other again.

The occasion was a show Gary promoted at Madison Square Garden. Opening that night was a new, all-female supergroup called Raincoat Brigade which featured former members of Girlschool, Mystery Date, and the Carrie Nations. It was their debut performance, and they were all quite nervous. Gary had invited Liz as a special backstage guest. He’d hoped her presence would give the band some encouragement.

Raincoat Brigade’s debut was sensational. They went over as well as Jackie and the Rippers had done a dozen years earlier, but this was a much larger venue. Thousands of people were standing and cheering for them—for them, a new band without even a CD in release yet. Liz watched from the edge of the stage curtain, her heart racing as the show brought back bittersweet memories of her own performing debut so many years before.

And then it was over.

The audience demanded more. “We want the Raincoats!” they chanted. “We want the Raincoats!”

Strutting back onstage to the shrill cheers of the crowd, Raincoat Brigade’s lead vocalist seized the microphone and motioned for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said once the crowd was calm again, “we have a special visitor here tonight and I’m sure you’d all love to meet her. Some of you know her as Pam Jones, the little lady who’s put the kick in hit records by more bands than I’ve got time to name.”

The audience stirred with excitement.

Liz felt her heartbeat quickening. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, “I hope she’s not going to—”

“But you older rock’n’rollers out there will remember her by another name. Folks, everyone please give a great big New York welcome for the former drummer of Jackie and the Rippers, Miss Long Liz!”

Liz looked around in panic. “Am I supposed to go out there?”

The crowd went wild. The cheering was even greater than that which had greeted Raincoat Brigade. It was a thundering ocean of shrieks, clapping, floor-stomping, airhorns, and firecrackers. It was infectious, hypnotic, more powerful than anything Liz had ever experienced. Someone pushed her gently from behind and she stepped slowly out onto the stage, her eyes widening at the scene. A constellation of flashbulbs lit up.

And then, in the midst of the uproar, a familiar chant emerged.

“We want the Rippers! We want the Rippers!”

Inebriated with the excitement, only dimly aware what was happening, Liz was led over to the drumkit. Raincoat Brigade’s drummer yielded her seat and handed Liz a set of sticks.

“We want the Rippers! We want the Rippers!”

In that instant, twelve years melted away.

Liz smiled, raised the drumsticks high in the air, brought them down hard on the floor toms, then up at the cymbals.

Raincoat Brigade recognized the intro at once—the classic “Pretty Maids All in a Row.” A nervous glance passed between the band members. The bass guitarist shrugged, picked a note, and began to play. The others joined in where appropriate, providing the minimal accompaniment necessary to re-create the tune from the single. The group’s vocalist even did a passable imitation of Jackie’s sole lyric, “Catch me if you can, Mister Lusk!”

About 40 seconds shy of the tune’s finale, as Liz was dealing jackhammer blows to the bass drum while setting up a countermelody with cymbal splash, she noticed the scene in the front of the crowd.

There was a surging mob crushed right up against the edge of the stage, partially obscured by the row of black monitors. The jumble of bodies was so thick it would have been impossible to count them. Moving as one writhing, throbbing, dancing, jumping waving mass of arms and heads, they crashed against the border of the stage like ocean waves on a rocky coastline—but with the surreal speed of a fast-motion film.

And somewhere in this chaos of shaking flesh, almost lost in the confusion of limbs, was a large human hand.

The instant she saw it, Liz could not take her eyes off it.

It was a dark hand, olive in complexion with heavy patches of thick black hair on its back. The fingernails were sharpened, long and hooked at their tips. The hand bounced with the music, following the motion of the crowd.

As she continued to play, Liz noticed that the hand seemed to emerge from a long, black sleeve somewhere out there, and that there was a wide white cuff between the hand and sleeve. The hand was held straight up, shaking with the music’s beat. And then, as the song crashed to its finale, the hand descended. It angled down toward the stage, the thumb and the three lower fingers folding back gradually while the index finger remained extended.

It was a left hand, and it was pointing directly at Liz.




ONE SIZE EATS ALL

by T.E.D. Klein







T.E.D. Klein returns to The Year’s Best Horror Stories after an absence of far too many years. Meanwhile he has been busy, as he notes: “Founding editor, in 1981, of Twilight Zone (whose total lifespan, eerily enough, coincides with the Reagan years: our first issue came out shortly after RR’s inauguration; the final issue, under Tappan King, came out around the time of Bush’s inauguration, or thereabouts). Founding editor, in 1991, of CrimeBeat, a true-crime monthly (of a decidedly law-and-order persuasion) which expired last spring.”

A native New Yorker, Klein was born there in 1947 and now lives in Manhattan. Somehow during the 1980s he found time to write a novel, The Ceremonies, and a collection, Dark Gods—both highly acclaimed. Just now, he is laboring over a new novel, Nighttown. Of other projects: “I was hired to write the script for Dario Argento’s Trauma, shot in Minneapolis in 1992 and (thankfully) still unreleased in the U.S.”





The words had been emblazoned on the plastic wrapper of Andy’s new sleeping bag, in letters that were fat and pink and somewhat crudely printed. Andy had read them aloud as he unwrapped the bag on Christmas morning.

“‘One size eats all.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jack, his older brother, had laughed. “Maybe it’s not really a sleeping bag. Maybe it’s a feed bag!”

Andy’s gaze had darted to the grotesquely large metal zipper that ran along the edge of the bag in rows of gleaming teeth. He’d felt a momentary touch of dread.

“It’s obviously a mistake,” Andy’s father had said. “Or else a bad translation. They must have meant ‘One size fits all.’ ”

He was sure that his father was right. Still, the words on the wrapper had left him perplexed and uneasy. He’d slept in plenty of sleeping bags before, but he knew he didn’t want to sleep in this one.

And now, as he sat huddled in his tent halfway up Wendigo Mountain, about to slip his feet into the bag, he was even more uneasy. What if it wasn’t a mistake?




He and Jack had been planning the trip for months; it was the reason they’d ordered the sleeping bags. Jack, who was bigger and more athletic and who’d already started to shave, had picked an expensive Arctic Explorer model from the catalogue. Nothing but the best for Jack. Andy, though, had hoped that if he chose an obscure brand manufactured overseas, and thereby saved his parents money, maybe they’d raise his allowance.

But they hadn’t even noticed. The truth was, they’d always been somewhat inattentive where Andy was concerned. They barely seemed to notice how Jack bullied him.

Jack did bully him—in a brotherly way, of course. His bright red hair seemed to go with his fiery temper, and he wasn’t slow to use his fists. He seemed to best the younger boy in just about everything, from basketball to campfire-building.

Which was why, just before they’d set out for Wendigo Mountain, Andy had invited his friend Willie along. Willie was small, pale, and even less athletic than Andy. His head seemed much too big for his body. On a strenuous overnight hike like this one, Andy thought, it was nice to have somebody slower and weaker than he was.




True to form, Willie lagged behind the two brothers as they trudged single-file up the trail, winding their way among the tall trees that covered the base of the mountain, keeping their eyes peeled for the occasional dark green trail-markers painted on the trunks. It was a sunny morning, and the air had begun to lose some of the previous night’s chill.

By the time Willie caught up, winded and sweating beneath his down jacket, Andy and Jack had taken off their backpacks and stopped for a rest.

“It’s your tough luck,” Jack was telling him. “You’ve heard the old saying, ‘You made your bed, now lie in it’?”

Andy nodded glumly.

“Well, it’s the same thing,” said Jack. “You wanted the damn bag, so tonight you’re just gonna have to lie in it.”

All morning, that’s exactly what Andy had been worrying about. He eyed the pack at his feet, with the puffy brown shape strapped beneath it, and wished the night would never come. You made your bed, he told himself. Now die in it.

“Andy, for God’s sake, stop obsessing about that bag!” said Willie. “You’re letting your fears get the best of you. Honest, it’s a perfectly ordinary piece of camping gear.”

“Willie’s right,” said Jack. Hoisting his backpack onto his shoulders, he grinned and added cruelly, “And the people it eats are perfectly ordinary, too!”

As they continued up the trail, the trees grew smaller and began to thin; the air grew cooler. Andy could feel the weight of the thing on his back, heavier than a sleeping bag ought to be and pressing against him with, he sensed, a primitive desire—a creature impatient for its dinner.

Ahead of him, Jack turned. “Hey, Willie,” he yelled. “Did Andy tell you where his bag is from?”

“No,” said Willie, far behind them. “Where?”

Jack laughed delightedly. “Hungary!”




They made camp at a level clearing halfway up the mountain. Andy and Willie would be sharing a tent that night; Jack had one to himself. Late afternoon sunlight gleamed from patches of snow among the surrounding rocks.

The three unrolled their sleeping bags inside the tents. Andy paused before joining the others outside. In the dim light his bag lay brown and bloated, a living coffin waiting for an occupant. Andy reminded himself that it was, in fact, a fairly normal-looking bag—not very different, in truth, from Jack’s new Arctic Explorer. Still, he wished he had a sleeping bag like Willie’s, a comfortable old thing that had been in the family for years.

Willie lagged behind again as the brothers left camp and returned to the trail. They waited until he’d caught up. Both younger boys were tired and would have preferred to stay near the tents for the rest of the day, but Jack, impatient, wanted to press on toward the summit while it was still light.

The three took turns carrying a day pack with their compasses, flashlights, emergency food, and a map. The slope was steeper here, strewn with massive boulders, and the exertion made them warm again. Maybe, thought Andy, he wouldn’t even need the bag tonight.

The terrain became increasingly difficult as they neared Wendigo’s peak, where the trail was blanketed by snow. They were exhausted by the time they reached the top—too exhausted to appreciate the sweeping view, the stunted pines, and the small mounds of stones piled in odd patterns across the rock face.

They raised a feeble shout of triumph, rested briefly, then started down. Andy sensed that they would have to hurry; standing on the summit, he’d been unnerved at how low the sun lay in the sky.

The air was colder now, and shadows were lengthening across the snow. Before they’d gotten very far, the sun had sunk below the other side of the mountain.

They’d been traveling in shadow for what seemed nearly an hour, Jack leading the way, when the older boy paused and asked to see the map. Andy and Willie looked at one another and realized, with horror, that they had left the day pack at the top of the mountain, somewhere among the cairns and twisted trees.

“I thought you had it,” said Andy, aghast at the smaller boy’s carelessness.

“I thought you did,” said Willie.

No matter; it was Andy that Jack swore at and smacked on the side of the head. Willie looked pained, as if he, too, had been hit.

Jack glanced up the slope, then turned and angrily continued down the trail. “Let’s go!” he snapped over his shoulder. “Too late to go back for it now.”

They got lost twice coming down, squeezing between boulders, clambering over jagged rocks, and slipping on patches of ice. But just as night had settled on the mountain, and Andy could no longer make out his brother’s red hair or his friend’s pale face, they all felt the familiar hard-packed earth of the trail beneath their boots.

They were dog-tired and aching by the time they stumbled into camp. They had no flashlights and were too fatigued to try to build a fire. Poor Willie, weariest of all, felt his way to the tent and crawled inside. Andy hung back. In the darkness he heard Jack yawn and slip into the other tent.

He was alone now, with no light but the stars and a sliver of moon, like a great curved mouth. The night was chilly; he knew he couldn’t stay out here. With a sigh, he pushed through the tent flaps, trying not to think about what waited for him inside.

The interior of the tent was pitch black and as cold as outdoors. Willie was already asleep. The air, once crisp, seemed heavy with an alien smell; when he lifted the flap of his sleeping bag, the smell grew stronger. Did all new bags smell like this? He recognized the odors of canvas and rubber, but beneath them lurked a hint of something else: fur, maybe, or the breath of an animal.

No, he was imagining things. The only irrefutable fact was the cold. Feeling his way carefully in the darkness, Andy unlaced his boots, barely noticed that his socks were encrusted with snow. Gingerly he inserted one foot into the mouth of the bag, praying he’d feel nothing unusual.

The walls of the bag felt smooth and, moments later, warm. Too warm. Surely, though, it was just the warmth of his own body.

He pushed both legs in further, then slipped his feet all the way to the bottom. Lying in the darkness, listening to the sound of Willie’s breathing, he could feel the bag press itself against his ankles and legs, clinging to them with a weight that seemed, for goosedown, a shade too heavy. Yet the feeling was not unpleasant. He willed himself to relax.

It occurred to him, as he waited uneasily for sleep, what a clever disguise a bag like this would make for a creature that fed on human flesh. Like a spider feasting upon flies that had blundered into its web, such a creature might gorge contentedly on human beings stupid enough to disregard its warning: One size eats all… Imagine, prey that literally pushed itself into the predator’s mouth!

Human stomach acid, he’d read, was capable of eating through a razor blade; and surely this creature’s would be worse. He pictured the thing dissolving bones, draining the very life-blood from its victim, leaving a corpse sucked dry of fluids, like the withered husk a spider leaves behind…

Suddenly he froze. He felt something damp—no, wet—at the bottom of the bag. Wet like saliva. Or worse.

Kicking his feet, he wriggled free of the bag. Maybe what he’d felt was simply the melted snow from his socks, but in the darkness he was he was taking no chances. Feeling for his boots, he laced them back on and curled up on top of the bag, shivering beneath his coat.




Willie’s voice woke him.

“Andy? Are you okay?”

Andy opened his eyes. It was light out. He had survived the night.

“Why were you sleeping like that?” said Willie. “You must be frozen.”

“I was afraid to get back in the bag. It felt… weird.”

Willie smiled. “It was just your imagination, Andy. That’s not even your bag.”

“Huh?” Andy peered down at the bag. A label near the top said Arctic Explorer. “But how—”

“I switched your bag with Jack’s when the two of you were starting for the summit,” said Willie. “I meant to tell you, but I fell asleep”

“Jack’ll be furious,” said Andy. “He’ll kill me for this!”

Trembling with cold and fear, he crawled stiffly from the tent. It was early morning; a chilly sun hung in the pale blue sky. He dashed to Jack’s tent and yanked back the flaps, already composing an apology.

The tent was empty. The sleeping bag, his bag, lay dark and swollen on the floor. There seemed to be no one inside.

Or almost no one; for emerging from the top was what appeared to be a deflated basketball—only this one had red hair and a human face.




RESURRECTION by Adam Meyer







Part of the crop of younger writers who are beginning to appear in The Year’s Best Horror Stories, Adam Meyer explains: “Born St. Patrick’s Day 1972, I have not an ounce of Irish blood in my body. Though my native county is Queens, New York, I now live in Washington, D.C. with my fiancée, two cats, and enough books to fill the Grand Canyon. A graduate of SUNY Albany, I’m now studying for my Master’s in film production at the American University.”

Meyer’s short fiction has been published in the small press, as have his interviews and reviews; he currently has three novels seeking a publisher. Meyer made a film of “Resurrection” for a video class, and he threatens to send me a copy. Meyer wrote, directed, and edited the film, which starred his former roommate and his current fiancée. Good luck, kids.





I watch Donna as she sleeps the sleep of the dead, dreams the dreams of eternity. I glance at my watch, see it’s 12:18 A.M., do the arithmetic, and realize that it’s been over four hours since I killed her.

If the old witch’s chant works, it shouldn’t be long. I’ll give it another hour, I think. If nothing’s happened by then… what? Go back to the rundown apartment downtown, where the walls reek of cat urine and death? What will I say to her? Demand my money back? Kill her, too?

I am not a murderer, I tell myself. I care about life, not death.




I sit in a chair at Donna’s bedside and watch, wait, hope. Her black hair fans out across the pillow, her ice-blue eyes peer out from a face as white as marble, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Her hands lay palm down at her sides. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but I think I can see the faintest trace of a smile on her blood-red lips.

I get up from the chair, begin to pace. Time check: 12:32. She isn’t going to wake up, I think, and rage fills me. For two hundred bucks, I expect to get a resurrection chant that works. Then I think that maybe it’s better if Donna doesn’t get up. Maybe it’s best if I slip away into the night and forget this whole crazy plan.

I wonder what Donna will be like when she returns to life. The old woman said there’d be virtually no change in her personality (except for a little post-resurrection shock), she’d be as lucid and sane after death as before. Still, I wonder. I’ve seen the movies, everything from Frankenstein to Re-Animator. I know what can happen when you interfere with the processes of life and death. But, God, I’ve got to know. I must.

So I wait.

The phone rings, and I jump. I don’t dare answer it.

12:56 A.M. Another half-hour, I vow.

I remember the scene when Boris Karloff, the Frankenstein monster, hurls that little girl into the lake with as much thought as he’d tossed flowers a few seconds before.

In my mind’s eye I imagine a zombie-Donna with cruel soulless eyes hurling me through the window to a death awaiting me twelve stories below.

That’s crazy, I tell myself. But I can’t help wondering.

By 1:14 A.M., I’m furious. That old witch is a phony. She doesn’t know a thing about magic, let alone raising the dead.

And then I hear the sound of labored breathing from the bed.

I look up, eyes wide, heart fluttering like a trapped moth.

Donna coughs, lifts her hands experimentally, curling the fingers, raises her head from the pillow, and looks at me. Her blue eyes appear very dark in the lamp light; she seems disoriented at first. I’m positive she doesn’t recognize me, and that the only thing on her mind is devouring my flesh.

She opens her mouth, but no words come out for several seconds. Finally she manages to say, “Jay? What—” I watch her expression as the realization comes to her.

“I was dead,” she says with an expression not unlike awe. She sits up and swings her legs off the bed. Her hands go to her back, reaching for the gaping wound between her shoulder blades. When her hands reappear, they’re covered with sticky, half-dried blood. “I was dead. Wasn’t I?”

“Yes, you were. But I brought you back.”

Donna’s eyes narrow suddenly. “Jay, you murdered me.” She says that word like an obscenity, comprehending for the first time the magnitude of what has happened.

“I know, Donna. I know. How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Any pain?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Dizziness?”

“No.”

“How’s your memory?”

“Okay, I guess. Jay, you…” She stands up and begins to sob. I expect to see tears, but there are none. I suppose they’ve dried up.

“Jay,” she wails, “I was dead, DEAD, and I… how did you, I, what—”

I want to embrace her, but she backs away as if my madness were contagious. “Why did you do it? And if I was dead, how could you bring me back to life? It’s impossible. This must be a nightmare, it has to be, because this can’t be real.”

“It is real,” I say. “Very real.”

“Oh Christ, this is too much. You literally stabbed me in the fucking back!” She laughs, but there is no humor in it.

“Calm down, Donna. After all, I brought—”

“You bastard, you loon, just stay away. My own boyfriend! I thought I could trust you, Jay. I loved you, and I thought you loved me, and—” She moans. “You just keep your distance.”

I take three steps backward. “This far enough?”

“Fine,” she says.

“I do love you,” I say.

A cruel sound leaves her lips, laughter so warped it borders on the maniacal.

“I never wanted to hurt you.” Suddenly I find myself justifying my actions to her, much as I have been trying to justify them to my own conscience. “But I had to do something. I was so scared. I had to, don’t you see?”

“Like hell I do.”

“I’m sorry. I care about you so much, Donna, you can’t imagine. But there are other things to be considered.” My head churns like the inside of a blender. “I needed someone I could trust. Besides, in a way, I’ve given you a kind of gift. You’re a pioneer. Not many people have ever returned from the grave.”

“I’m honored.” Her voice drips with sarcasm.

“Please, Donna, try to understand.”

She covers her face with her hands, like a child playing peek-a-boo. “This is all happening so fast. It’s crazy.” She looks up. “I want to understand, Jay, I truly do. Tell me why. You owe me that much.”

I shake my head, realizing how absurd this all is, like something out of a John Carpenter flick. A killer explaining his motives to his victim after she’s already dead. Ludicrous.

“All right, I’ll tell you, though I’m not sure I even know why myself. It started last April, when my father died. You remember that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I was at the funeral with you, wasn’t I?”

“Yes. I appreciate it. You helped me get through one of the toughest times of my life. I thought I was over it. Then, about six weeks ago, when Ron died…” I felt tears build in my eyes but willed them away. “He was my best friend. We grew up together. I knew AIDS would get him sooner or later, but… he wasn’t even thirty years old, Donna.”

“I know.”

“I started to become obsessed with the idea of death. Every breath I took, I was afraid it would be my last.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Donna asks. “Maybe you should have seen a psychologist. It’s still not too late.”

“My sister used to see a shrink. I’ve always thought they were for… weak people. Strong people solve their own problems. And so I told myself I had to find a way to work through the problem, alone.

“That’s when I realized something. Why was I afraid of death? Why is anyone? Because it’s human nature to fear the unknown. Death is the ultimate unknown. So I decided to find out what it was all about. That’s why I did it, Donna.”

“Jay, I can’t believe… you’re…”

“Nuts?”

“I wasn’t going to—”

“You didn’t have to say it. I can see it in your eyes. But it worked, didn’t it? You were dead, and now you’re not. So tell me, what is the afterlife like? Don’t spare a single detail. I want to know it all.”

She says nothing, just stares at the beige carpet.

“I’m waiting.”

“I… what’s going to happen to me?” she asks miserably. “How am I going to live now that I’ve been… dead?”

I pause. “Same as before. Besides the only person who knows you were dead is me. Nobody will even suspect.”

She seems to consider this for a moment. “But what about this?” She turns around, giving me a glimpse of the torn blouse and the gouged flesh beneath, the bone-white of her vertebrae. I look away, feeling my stomach lurch.

“What about it?”

“How can I live a normal life with a hole in my back?”

My mind races. “I’ll fix it.”

“You? How?”

“Magic,” I lie.

“Magic,” she says dubiously.

“I resurrected you, didn’t I? Believe me, a little stab wound is nothing compared to raising the dead.”

Donna sighs, satisfied for a moment.

“Now, I want you to tell me everything you remember about tonight.”

A frown creases her brow. “Well, you knocked at the door, saying you had to talk to me, and it sounded urgent, so I opened the door and you—”

“I know that,” I say impatiently. “Tell me what you remember… after I stabbed you.”

“Well, I remember that the pain in my back was really bad, it burned, as if someone had set me on fire, and I thought it would never end, but then it did, I guess. It’s like when you fall asleep, you know it happened, but you can’t pinpoint the exact moment.”

“What else?”

“There isn’t much else. The pain was gone, somehow, and the next thing I knew I opened my eyes and I was here.” She shrugs.

“That’s it?”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

Stay calm, I think. Coax it out of her. Don’t panic. Not yet.

“What about all the time when you were actually dead?” I ask. “Don’t you remember anything? Even something that might seem insignificant?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “If anything did happen, then I can’t remember what it was. Maybe I was in heaven, but then when you brought me back it vanished from my memory, like a dream.”

My hand goes to the scissors in my back pocket. “You’re saying you had a dream?”

“I’m saying that I don’t know! Are you deaf? I don’t know, I just don’t fucking know!”

“Or maybe you do know and just aren’t telling me.” I take a step towards Donna. Either she doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Maybe you’re being spiteful, you cold, dead cunt. Maybe that’s it.”

“No,” she says, leaping across the bed, crawling, eyeing the bedroom door. “Nooooo!”

She lunges, but I’m too fast for her. I grab her wrist as she reaches for the doorknob and twist her arm just enough so that she can feel how fragile tendons really are. A low squeal escapes her, then nothing, not even the rustle of her breath. She is as silent as a corpse.

“Are you going to tell me, now?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Donna gasps. “Nothing.”

“We’ll see,” I say, and bring my right hand out from behind my back. The scissors gleam in the lamplight, their stainless steel surface shiny enough to show me my own reflection. I bring them up so Donna can see them, and I savor the look of horror in her big blue eyes.

Then I bury the blade in her socket while she stares up at me in one-eyed agony and terror. Gore gushes out, splashing my hand, staining the carpet. After a minute I let go of her arm and the scissors. Donna’s body slumps to the floor. The blood flows long after the look of life is gone from her remaining eye, and I wait until it’s halted to remove the blades.

I lift her body back onto the bed and go into the bathroom to wash myself and vomit.

When I return, I kneel on the carpet and say the chant for the second time.

Afterwards I sit down in a chair by the bed. The only thing to do now is wait.




I LIVE TO WASH HER

by Joey Froehlich







Joey Froehlich is one of the foremost gonzo madmen of the small press scene. No mean achievement. Born in Honolulu, Hawaii on November 13, 1954, Froehlich is best known for the hundreds of his poems, most of which could easily fit onto a matchbook cover, which have appeared in countless small press publications. He has also published two small press magazines, Whispered Legends and Violent Legends, and is at work on a third, Live Mysteries. Froehlich has spent most of his life in Kentucky and can now be found crawling around Frankfort. He is currently at work on a novel, The Eyes of a Saint, and he has compiled a collection of his poems entitled The Fuel of Tender Years, for which Stephen King has offered to write an introduction. Any publishers reading this?





“Let me tell you a story.” The old man laughed. I knew him, but he was not my friend. It was strange and weird, the way he danced… with his hair greased back and wet. His lips moved slowly and his wonderful words owned a flavor I could not forget, the dance romance of a toothpick broken at the tip. “Those were the days,” he said as if it meant something and I kinda figured that to him it did.

For a moment I thought he might have seen a monster the way he flicked his little eyes and lifted his greasy hand to one side, the left. There was fear in those old eyes but it quickly disappeared as he laughed again. I was sure the old man had seen something I hadn’t. Possibly couldn’t. It was a haunted look… I think a fear of death. A regret that passed like some weird wind. The old man looked sick. “You never know where they must go,” he coughed. He went on and on, a vibrant speech that could have been a song. And then he said, “I live to wash her,” and I understood the rest. It was a story I’d heard before but that didn’t stop him from continuing as he picked up the mirror and tears formed… then began to flow. Yeah. First a waterfall and then a river, the tears that showed. The tears were old. It hurt me to watch this as I suspect you know. I think there was still this deep pain somewhere inside him, and it welled up in those sad eyes because he could not forget the girl he had known for more than fifty years. And it just came out. A tango of emotions , mixed with doubt. It just seemed weird. To me, at least at that time, it did. I saw what those deep scars of time had done to him and could have cried as well but I held back and listened now.

“I met her at the grocery story,” he explained. “She was buying broccoli if I remember correctly. And of course I do! No—I’ll never forget that day as long as I live. I remember it as if it were yesterday. Her blonde hair danced as she walked down the aisle. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I didn’t know what to say. But she smiled. God—she was beautiful and young and wild. Words weren’t needed. The air hung silent. I stood there, with her not far away. She had stopped to pick up that broccoli—lunch or supper—it didn’t matter. She didn’t talk. But I was mad about her. No one else was around. We shared the aisle, just her and I. The moment that will last forever as her blonde hair fell and her eyes met mine. I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite like that since. And before that I didn’t know what love was. It was just a word you understand. It had no meaning. None whatsoever before I met the girl, a fate as kind as any fate could be. Before that day I was not alive. But since—with her—every day has meant so much to me. So much, you see. I even learned to like broccoli. She could fix broccoli like no one else. Maybe that’s a part of it. I don’t know.” The old man was getting into it as he rambled on. It was easy to see that he still loved that girl. He finally sat at the table.

The old man looked down. His bloodshot eyes moved slowly. He forced a smile. A strained reunion. The past had come back to haunt him or so it seemed. Fond memories danced like a rampant dream, growing luxuriantly as he spoke the words that drifted like a bitter tea. Something had been lost and it was easy to see that the old man had never really liked broccoli. Even if he said as much. It wasn’t that broccoli so much though that haunted him, but the girl he had met fifty years before in the grocery store. Fifty years. And he still talked as if it was yesterday. When he had met the girl and fell in love and started eating broccoli. The whole affair bothered me.

It wasn’t normal to dwell in the past like that. I was sure the girl was dead. I had gone to the funeral only the week before. And here he was going on about her as if she was still alive. Going on about when he first met her, talking about her blonde hair and blue eyes and what he lived for as if that mattered. The whole damn thing was nearly enough to make you cry though we know old people can be like that, living in the past and the sort. That still doesn’t mean it’s not strange. Or that it’s healthy. They get a little crazy sometimes. And that’s too bad, indeed!

Sometimes it’s hard to understand why they go loony tunes. But they often do. This being a point in fact. The way the old man was living in the past. Yet his story fascinated me (in a way) I must admit. There was more to it than that, ya see. And as he sat down he continued, the story unfolding like a bizarre strange dream. His despair becoming more evident with every word. The old man looked frail. Almost dead himself! It almost hurt me to see him go on that way though I don’t think I could have stopped him even if I wanted to. And I had no reason to do that. No reason at all. I thought there might be more to the story. Something he hadn’t told me. So I stayed. And I listened to the weird scarecrow speech. The old man meant nothing to me and yet when his eyes sparkled (only occasionally) it sent a shiver through me. There was no doubt he still loved her though she had been dead for more than a week.

I’d seen ’em put the coffin in the ground. The old man had been there. He surely remembered the funeral. And burial. They covered the coffin with the dirt at his feet. He couldn’t have forgotten something that had happened so recently, only last week. The old man never shed a tear for the girl though he wore a mask of stoic disbelief as he said the words that have come to bother me. He said, “I live to wash her.” That as they scooped up the dirt at his feet. He’s not been the same since. But there’s no way he could have forgotten the affair. He never would talk about it. The old man merely escaped to the past as indicated by his weird speech. Yet there was more to it, I really believe. I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s only a feeling I have. He’s funny that way. The way he makes you think there’s more than what meets the eye, some bizarre meaning to everything he says. And that seems crazy. Very much so though that’s only a figure of speech because all he does is sit at the table, only getting up for the occasional dance. And, of course, talk of the past. The world he must still be in with the blonde-haired girl he picked up at the local grocery store fifty years ago… today… I think. I wonder how much broccoli he’s eaten since then? Just a passing thought. Not something I would actually ask, content only to listen to the old man. And not ask questions he might think stupid. Those questions I have mere guesswork of a curious cat. I’m sure you know what curiosity did to the cat!

I’m only paid to listen. That’s what I do best. I can’t help it if there seems to be some mystery to all this. The old man’s face looks like broken glass. He only closes his eyes occasionally. He’s always wearing that mask. For some reason I don’t think he’s telling me everything. He’s hiding something, I fear. I just know he is. His smile is so weird. It’s the broken glass of despair that gets to me most as I listen. The old man isn’t happy. He rambles on and on about the girl. It is a fine ballet of words. But hints of something dark and secret. Something beyond my grasp. He seems edgy, a live wire that is nearly worn out and still has loose broken ends. The conflict comes from within; a deep chasm of pain I can’t quite explain. A place I can’t quite get to though I’m beginning to know where it is. This bothers me a great deal. He acts as if he doesn’t know the girl is dead. He talks about her in the present tense. This just doesn’t make sense.

I saw her as he did. In the coffin. Cold. And dead. She is six feet under, I tell you. He couldn’t wash her if he wanted to. So I don’t know why he keeps talking like this, about the girl in the present tense. It’s getting a bit eerie. It is. Bastard’s on a strange trip! Too much broccoli, I suspect.

The words dance.

Maybe she’s in the back room. The bedroom. Maybe the bastard dug her up. This is getting too weird for me. The old man points to the wash cloth on the table. “I live to wash her,” he says. He picks up the wash cloth. And laughs.




A LITTLE-KNOWN SIDE OF ELVIS

by Dennis Etchison







Don’t trust Dennis Etchison. He returned his contract with the closing comment: “I think ’94 is a definite improvement; hold that thought!” This was only a few days before the Big Quake in Los Angeles, centered not far from where he and his wife Kris live.

Born in Stockton, California on March 30, 1943, Etchison has been publishing strange short fiction since his callow youth. In recent years Etchison has edited the three-volume series, Masters of Darkness as well as two anthologies of original horror fiction, Cutting Edge and Metahorror. His own short fiction has been collected in The Dark Country, Red Dreams, and The Blood Kiss. Recently Dell/Abyss has published his novel, Shadowman, which will be followed by California Gothic and more.

Etchison’s short fiction fits my vague category of strange and disturbing—a handicap which kept him in obscurity throughout his early career. Times have changed.





Madding heard the dogs before he saw them.

They were snarling at each other through the hurricane fence, gums wet and incisors bared, as if about to snap the chain links that held them apart. A barrelchested boxer reared and slobbered, driving a much smaller Australian kelpie away from the outside of the gate. Spittle flew and the links vibrated and rang.

A few seconds later their owners came running, barking commands and waving leashes like whips.

“Easy, boy,” Madding said, reaching one hand out to the seat next to him. Then he remembered that he no longer had a dog of his own. There was nothing to worry about.

He set the brake, rolled the window up all the way, locked the car and walked across the lot to the park.

The boxer was far down the slope by now, pulled along by a man in a flowered shirt and pleated trousers. The Australian sheepdog still trembled by the fence. Its owner, a young woman, jerked a choke chain.

“Greta, sit!”

As Madding neared the gate, the dog growled and tried to stand.

She yanked the chain harder and slapped its hindquarters back into position.

“Hello, Greta,” said Madding, lifting the steel latch. He smiled at the young woman. “You’ve got a brave little dog there.”

“I don’t know why she’s acting this way,” she said, embarrassed.

“Is this her first time?”

“Pardon?”

“At the Dog Park.”

“Yes…”

“It takes some getting used to,” he told her. “All the freedom. They’re not sure how to behave.”

“Did you have the same trouble?”

“Of course.” He savored the memory, and at the same time wanted to put it out of his mind. “Everybody does. It’s normal.”

“I named her after Garbo—you know, the actress? I don’t think she likes crowds.” She looked around. “Where’s your dog?”

“Down there, I hope.” Madding opened the gate and let himself in, then held it wide for her.

She was squinting at him. “Excuse me,” she said, “but you work at Tri-Mark, don’t you?”

Madding shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

The kelpie dragged her down the slope with such force that she had to dig her feet into the grass to stop. The boxer was nowhere in sight.

“Greta, heel!”

“You can let her go,” Madding said as he came down behind her. “The leash law is only till three o’clock.”

“What time is it now?”

He checked his watch. “Almost five.”

She bent over and unfastened the leash from the ring on the dog’s collar. She was wearing white cotton shorts and a plain, loose-fitting top.

“Did I meet you in Joel Silver’s office?” she said.

“I don’t think so.” He smiled again. “Well, you and Greta have fun.”

He wandered off, tilting his face back and breathing deeply. The air was moving, scrubbed clean by the trees, rustling the shiny leaves as it circulated above the city, exchanging pollutants for fresh oxygen. It was easier to be on his own, but without a dog to pick the direction he was at loose ends. He felt the loss tugging at him like a cord that had not yet been broken.

The park was only a couple of acres, nestled between the high, winding turns of a mountain road on one side and a densely overgrown canyon on the other. This was the only park where dogs were allowed to run free, at least during certain hours, and in a few short months it had become an unofficial meeting place for people in the entertainment industry. Where once pitches had been delivered in detox clinics and the gourmet aisles of Westside supermarkets, now ambitious hustlers frequented the Dog Park to sharpen their networking skills. Here starlets connected with recently divorced producers, agents jockeyed for favor with young executives on the come, and actors and screenwriters exchanged tips about veterinarians, casting calls and pilots set to go to series in the fall. All it took was a dog, begged, borrowed or stolen, and the kind of desperate gregariousness that causes one to press business cards into the hands of absolute strangers.

He saw dozens of dogs, expensive breeds mingling shamelessly with common mutts, a microcosm of democracy at work. An English setter sniffed an unshorn French poodle, then gave up and joined the pack gathered around a honey-coloured cocker spaniel. A pair of black Great Dane puppies tumbled over each other golliwog-style, coming to rest at the feet of a tall, humorless German shepherd. An Afghan chased a Russian wolfhound. And there were the masters, posed against tree trunks, lounging at picnic tables, nervously cleaning up after their pets with long-handled scoopers while they waited to see who would enter the park next.

Madding played a game, trying to match up the animals with their owners. A man with a crewcut tossed a Frisbee, banking it against the setting sun like a translucent UFO before a bull terrier snatched it out of the air. Two fluffed Pekingese waddled across the path in front of Madding, trailing colorful leashes; when they neared the gorge at the edge of the park he started after them reflexively, then stopped as a short, piercing sound turned them and brought them back this way. A bodybuilder in a formfitting T-shirt glowered nearby, a silver whistle showing under his trimmed mustache.

Ahead, a Labrador, a chow, and a schnauzer had a silkie cornered by a trash bin. Three people seated on a wooden bench glanced up, laughed, and returned to the curled script they were reading. Madding could not see the title, only that the cover was a bilious yellow-green.

“I know,” said the young woman, drawing even with him, as her dog dashed off in an ever-widening circle. “It was at New Line. That was you, wasn’t it?”

“I’ve never been to New Line,” said Madding.

“Are you sure? The office on Robertson?”

“I’m sure.”

“Oh.” She was embarrassed once again, and tried to cover it with a self-conscious cheerfulness, the mark of a private person forced into playing the extrovert in order to survive. “You’re not an actor, then?”

“Only a writer,” said Madding.

She brightened. “I knew it!”

“Isn’t everyone in this town?” he said. “The butcher, the baker, the kid who parks your car… My drycleaner says he’s writing a script for Tim Burton.”

“Really?” she said, quite seriously. “I’m writing a spec script.”

Oh, no, he thought. He wanted to sink down into the grass and disappear, among the ants and beetles, but the ground was damp from the sprinklers and her dog was circling, hemming him in.

“Sorry,” he said.

“That’s OK. I have a real job, too. I’m on staff at Fox Network.”

“What show?” he asked, to be polite.

“C.H.U.M.P. The first episode is on next week. They’ve already ordered nine more, in case Don’t Worry, Be Happy gets canceled.”

“I’ve heard of it,” he said.

“Have you? What have you heard?”

He racked his brains. “It’s a cop series, right?”

“Canine-Human Unit, Metropolitan Police. You know, dogs that ride around in police cars, and the men and women they sacrifice themselves for? It has a lot of human interest, like L. A. Law, only it’s told through the dogs’ eyes.”

“Look Who’s Barking,” he said.

“Sort of.” She tilted her head to one side and thought for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was a joke, wasn’t it?”

“Sort of.”

“I get it.” She went on. “But what I really want to write is Movies-of-the-Week. My agent says she’ll put my script on Paul Nagle’s desk, as soon as I have a first draft.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s called A Little-Known Side of Elvis. That’s the working title. My agent says anything about Elvis will sell.”

“Which side of Elvis is this one?”

“Well, for example, did you know about his relationships with dogs? Most people don’t. Hound Dog wasn’t just a song.”

Her kelpie began to bark. A man with inflatable tennis shoes and a baseball cap worn backwards approached them, a clipboard in his hand.

“Hi!” he said, all teeth. “Would you take a minute to sign our petition?”

“No problem,” said the young woman. “What’s it for?”

“They’re trying to close the park to outsiders, except on weekends.”

She took his ballpoint pen and balanced the clipboard on her tanned forearm. “How come?”

“It’s the residents. They say we take up too many parking places on Mulholland. They want to keep the canyon for themselves.”

“Well,” she said, “they better watch out, or we might just start leaving our dogs here. Then they’ll multiply and take over!”

She grinned, her capped front teeth shining in the sunlight like two chips of paint from a pearly-white Lexus.

“What residents?” asked Madding.

“The homeowners,” said the man in the baseball cap, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

Madding’s eyes followed a line to the cliffs overlooking the park, where the cantilevered back-ends of several designer houses hung suspended above the gorge. The undersides of the decks, weathered and faded, were almost camouflaged by the weeds and chaparral.

“How about you?” The man took back the clipboard and held it out to Madding. “We need all the help we can get.”

“I’m not a registered voter,” said Madding.

“You’re not?”

“I don’t live here,” he said. “I mean, I did, but I don’t now. Not any more.”

“Are you registered?” the man asked her.

“Yes.”

“In the business?”

“I work at Fox,” she said.

“Oh, yeah? How’s the new regime? I hear Lili put all the old-timers out to pasture.”

“Not the studio,” she said. “The network.”

“Really? Do you know Kathryn Baker, by any chance?”

“I’ve seen her parking space. Why?”

“I used to be her dentist.” The man took out his wallet. “Here, let me give you my card.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “I already have someone.”

“Well, hold on to it anyway. You never know. Do you have a card?”

She reached into a Velcro pouch at her waist and handed him a card with a quill pen embossed on one corner.

The man read it. “C.H.U.M.P.—that’s great! Do you have a dental adviser yet?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Could you find out?”

“I suppose.”

He turned to Madding. “Are you an actor?”

“Writer,” said Madding. “But not the kind you mean.”

The man was puzzled. The young woman looked at him blankly. Madding felt the need to explain himself.

“I had a novel published, and somebody bought an option. I moved down here to write the screenplay.”

“Title?” said the man.

“You’ve probably never heard of it,” said Madding. “It was called And Soon the Night.”

“That’s it!” she said. “I just finished reading it—I saw your picture on the back of the book!” She furrowed her brow, a slight dimple appearing on the perfectly smooth skin between her eyes, as she struggled to remember. “Don’t tell me. Your name is…”

“David Madding,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Hi!” she said. “I’m Stacey Chernak.”

“Hi, yourself.”

“Do you have a card?” the man said to him.

“I’m all out,” said Madding. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He had never bothered to have any printed.

“What’s the start date?”

“There isn’t one,” said Madding. “They didn’t renew the option.”

“I see,” said the man in the baseball cap, losing interest.

A daisy chain of small dogs ran by, a miniature collie chasing a longhaired dachshund chasing a shivering chihuahua. The collie blurred as it went past, its long coat streaking like a flame.

“Well, I gotta get some more signatures before dark. Don’t forget to call me,” the man said to her. “I can advise on orthodontics, accident reconstruction, anything they want.”

“How about animal dentistry?” she said.

“Hey, why not?”

“I’ll give them your name.”

“Great,” he said to her. “Thanks!”

“Do you think that’s his collie?” she said when he had gone.

Madding considered. “More likely the Irish setter.”

They saw the man lean down to hook his fingers under the collar of a golden retriever. From the back, his baseball cap revealed the emblem of the New York Yankees. Not from around here, Madding thought. But then, who is?

“Close,” she said, and laughed.

The man led his dog past a dirt mound, where there was a drinking fountain, and a spigot that ran water into a trough for the animals.

“Water,” she said. “That’s a good idea. Greta!”

The kelpie came bounding over, eager to escape the attentions of a randy pit bull. They led her to the mound. As Greta drank, Madding read the sign over the spigot:





CAUTION!


Watch Out For Mountain Lions






“What do you think that means?” she said. “It isn’t true, is it?”

Madding felt a tightness in his chest. “It could be. This is still wild country.”

“Greta, stay with me…”

“Don’t worry. They only come out at night, probably.”

“Where’s your dog?” she said.

“I wish I knew.”

She tilted her head, uncertain whether or not he was making another joke.

“He ran away,” Madding told her.

“When?”

“Last month. I used to bring him here all the time. One day he didn’t come when I called. It got dark, and they closed the park, but he never came back.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“Yeah, me too.”

“What was his name?”

“He didn’t have one. I couldn’t make up my mind, and then it was too late.”

They walked on between the trees. She kept a close eye on Greta. Somewhere music was playing. The honey-colored cocker spaniel led the German shepherd, the Irish setter and a dalmatian to a redwood table. There the cocker’s owner, a woman with brassy hair and a sagging green halter, poured white wine into plastic cups for several men.

“I didn’t know,” said Stacey.

“I missed him at first, but now I figure he’s better off. Someplace where he can run free, all the time.”

“I’m sorry about your dog,” she said. “That’s so sad. But what I meant was, I didn’t know you were famous.”

It was hard to believe that she knew the book. The odds against it were staggering, particularly considering the paltry royalties. He decided not to ask what she thought of it. That would be pressing his luck.

“Who’s famous? I sold a novel. Big deal.”

“Well, at least you’re a real writer. I envy you.”

“Why?”

“You have it made.”

Sure I do, thought Madding. One decent review in the Village Voice Literary Supplement, and some reader at a production company makes an inquiry, and the next thing I know my agent makes a deal with all the money in the world at the top of the ladder. Only the ladder doesn’t go far enough. And now I’m back to square one, the option money used up, with a screenplay written on spec that’s not worth what it cost me to Xerox it, and I’m six months behind on the next novel. But I’ve got it made. Just ask the IRS.

The music grew louder as they walked. It seemed to be coming from somewhere overhead. Madding gazed up into the trees, where the late-afternoon rays sparkled through the leaves, gold coins edged in blackness. He thought he heard voices, too, and the clink of glasses. Was there a party? The entire expanse of the park was visible from here, but he could see no evidence of a large group anywhere. The sounds were diffused and unlocalized, as if played back through widely spaced, out-of-phase speakers.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“What?”

“You said you don’t live here any more.”

“In Calistoga.”

“Where’s that?”

“Up north.”

“Oh.”

He began to relax. He was glad to be finished with this town.

“I closed out my lease today,” he told her. “Everything’s packed. As soon as I hit the road, I’m out of here.”

“Why did you come back to the park?”

A good question, he thought. He hadn’t planned to stop by. It was a last-minute impulse.

“I’m not sure,” he said. No, that wasn’t true. He might as well admit it. “It sounds crazy, but I guess I wanted to look for my dog. I thought I’d give it one more chance. It doesn’t feel right, leaving him.”

“Do you think he’s still here?”

He felt a tingling in the pit of his stomach. It was not a good feeling. I shouldn’t have come, he thought. Then I wouldn’t have had to face it. It’s dangerous here, too dangerous for there to be much hope.

“At least I’ll know,” he said.

He heard a sudden intake of breath and turned to her. There were tears in her eyes, as clear as diamonds.

“It’s like the end of your book,” she said. “When the little girl is alone, and doesn’t know what’s going to happen next…”

My God, he thought, she did read it He felt flattered, but kept his ego in check. She’s not so tough She has a heart, after all, under all the bravado. That’s worth something—it’s worth a lot. I hope she makes it, the Elvis script, whatever she really wants. She deserves it.

She composed herself and looked around, blinking. “What is that?”

“What’s what?”

“Don’t you hear it?” She raised her chin and moved her head from side to side, eyes closed.

She meant the music, the glasses, the sound of the party that wasn’t there. “I don’t know.”

Now there was the scraping of steel somewhere behind them, like a rough blade drawn through metal. He stopped and turned around quickly.

A couple of hundred yards away, at the top of the slope, a man in a uniform opened the gate to the park. Beyond the fence, a second man climbed out of an idling car with a red, white, and blue shield on the door. He had a heavy chain in one hand.

“Come on,” said Madding. “It’s time to go.”

“It can’t be.”

“The security guards are here. They close the park at six.”

“Already?”

Madding was surprised, too. He wondered how long they had been walking. He saw the man with the crewcut searching for his Frisbee in the grass, the bull terrier at his side. The group on the bench and the woman in the halter were collecting their things. The bodybuilder marched his two ribboned Pekingese to the slope. The Beverly Hills dentist whistled and stood waiting for his dog to come to him. Madding snapped to, as if waking up. It really was time.

The sun had dropped behind the hills and the grass under his feet was darkening. The car in the parking lot above continued to idle; the rumbling of the engine reverberated in the natural bowl of the park, as though close enough to bulldoze them out of the way. He heard a rhythm in the throbbing, and realized that it was music, after all.

They had wandered close to the edge, where the park ended and the gorge began. Over the gorge, the deck of one of the cantilevered houses beat like a drum.

“Where’s Greta?” she said.

He saw the stark expression, the tendons outlined through the smooth skin of her throat.

“Here, girl! Over here…!”

She called out, expecting to see her dog. Then she clapped her hands together. The sound bounced back like the echo of a gunshot from the depths of the canyon. The dog did not come.

In the parking lot, the second security guard let a Doberman out of the car. It was a sleek, black streak next to him as he carried the heavy chain to his partner, who was waiting for the park to empty before padlocking the gate.

Madding took her arm. Her skin was covered with gooseflesh. She drew away.

“I can’t go,” she said. “I have to find Greta.”

He scanned the grassy slopes with her, avoiding the gorge until there was nowhere left to look. It was blacker than he remembered. Misshapen bushes and stunted shrubs filled the canyon below, extending all the way down to the formal boundaries of the city. He remembered standing here only a few weeks ago, in exactly the same position. He had told himself then that his dog could not have gone over the edge, but now he saw that there was nowhere else to go.

The breeze became a wind in the canyon and the black liquid eye of a swimming pool winked at him from far down the hillside. Above, the sound of the music stopped abruptly.

“You don’t think she went down there, do you?” said Stacey. There was a catch in her voice. “The mountain lions…”

“They only come out at night.”

“But it is night!”

They heard a high, broken keening.

“Listen!” she said. “That’s Greta!”

“No, it’s not. Dogs don’t make that sound. It’s—” He stopped himself.

“What?”

“Coyotes.”

He regretted saying it.

Now, without the music, the shuffling of footsteps on the boards was clear and unmistakable. He glanced up. Shadows appeared over the edge of the deck as a line of heads gathered to look down. Ice cubes rattled and someone laughed. Then someone else made a shushing sound and the silhouetted heads bobbed silently, listening and watching.

Can they see us? he wondered.

Madding felt the presence of the Doberman behind him, at the top of the slope. How long would it take to close the distance, once the guards set it loose to clear the park? Surely they would call out a warning first. He waited for the voice, as the sounds ticked by on his watch.

“I have to go get her,” she said, starting for the gorge.

“No…”

“I can’t just leave her.”

“It’s not safe,” he said.

“But she’s down there, I know it! Greta!”

There was a giggling from the deck.

They can hear us, too, he thought. Every sound, every word magnified, like a Greek amphitheater. Or a Roman one.

Rover, Spot, Towser? No, Cubby. That’s what I was going to call you, if there had been time. I always liked the name. Cubby.

He made a decision.

“Stay here,” he said, pushing her aside.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going over.”

“You don’t have to. It’s my dog…”

“Mine, too.”

Maybe they’re both down there, he thought.

“I’ll go with you,” she said.

“No.”

He stood there, thinking. It all comes down to this. There’s no way to avoid it. There never was.

“But you don’t know what’s there…!”

“Go,” he said to her, without turning around. “Get out of here while you can. There’s still time.”

Go home, he thought, wherever that is. You have a life ahead of you. It’s not too late, if you go right now, without looking back.

“Wait…!”

He disappeared over the edge.

A moment later there was a new sound, something more than the breaking of branches and the thrashing. It was powerful and deep, followed immediately by a high, mournful yipping. Then there was only silence, and the night.

From above the gorge, a series of quick, hard claps fell like rain.

It was the people on the deck.

They were applauding.




PERFECT DAYS

by Chet Williamson







Some years back at a World Fantasy Convention in Chicago, Chet Williamson and I were on a panel together. He described a particularly nasty story he was working on, I said I’d like to see it when published, the story was published, and here it is. Worth the wait.

When asked to say something nice, Williamson responded: “I was born in Lancaster, PA in 1948, have a background in theater and advertising before I got into real writing, have published in a bunch of magazines, including Playboy, The New Yorker, Esquire (the Japanese edition, but it sounds good), F&SF, and others, as well as lotsa anthologies. Six novels, only one of which is currently in print (Reign), but with two coming up this year, Second Chance from CD Publications, and Mordeheim from TSR. Also due out any day is a four-issue Aliens mini-series from Dark Horse called Music of the Spears.” Williamson presently resides in Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania with his wife Laurie and teenaged son Colin.





It was the sheer perfection of the day that made Franklin Richards think about killing again. What there had been so far of winter was cold, harsh and biting. The first snowfall had come in early November, and the freezing temperatures had kept most of the four inches on the ground, though the roads and driveways and parking areas of the homes had long been bare. But this day was different. This day was glorious.

Richards had been a resident of the homes for six years now. It was the twin curse of mind and bowels that had decided him. His bowels had become more and more reluctant to obey his orders, and his mind had become less and less anxious to give them. He would awaken in the night soiled and not caring, lying in his bed until the discomfort and the smell finally drove him to his feet and into the bathroom to clean himself. He made the decision, no one else, as he had no children to make a pretense of caring for him. His decisions were his own, as always. He had never needed anyone to make them, indeed had never needed anyone at all, except for the times when he had killed. The women were the only others he had needed.

It had been easy to enter the homes. It was the national retirement community of a fraternal organization he had joined in the forties, after the war, when he had attained a small amount of respectability. He had gone to meetings from 1947 through 1949, but when the urge came again and he was forced to leave the town for weeks at a time to satisfy it, his attendance diminished, and finally lapsed, although he always continued to pay his national dues. Writing the check once a year gave him a feeling of belonging.

It also gave him a place to go when he was old and incontinent. He had merely signed over all his property and financial holdings (which were minimal), and moved into the “mid-care” building of the homes. He had been 78 then, and was 84 today, on this perfect day.

Richards stood on the balcony and looked down over the plaza, a half acre of cement pathways lined with old trees. Anderson was there, alone, hobbling along with his walker, snarling curses with his twisted mouth as he negotiated the aluminum frame around a patch of ice that had not yet fully melted. Richards glanced at one of the thermometers set here and there about the balcony railing, as if the residents could have no more fascinating pastime than to check the air temperature. Sixty-five. It was positively balmy on December 21st, a thing unheard of in their latitude.

Though Richards had never been a religious man, his required attendance at chapel (and, he thought, his inexorable approach to his own death) had brought out a spiritual side to him he had not known was there, and he had begun, as a result, to look for reasons in slight things, purposes and patterns in what he had before considered to be only a random cosmos. So now he wondered why the weather should have been so kind, what the gentle season augured.

Was it, he fancied, a boon to one of the residents who would die today or tonight? A final gift of grace before passing into the cold of the grave? Such an unexpected pleasure could not be mere happenstance. And then such thoughts passed, as he remembered other golden days, sunshine flooding down, making cold flesh warm, red blood gleam like rubies, metal blades flash blindingly when he licked them clean.

The memories had lost the power to stir him the way they used to. But still he thought of those times the way other old men thought of living flesh, of women hot and alive with passion, and the memories hardened their minds without touching their bodies, and they rejoiced in the memories while they grieved for the years that had stolen away their own lust, left them with only water spouts, and sometimes not even that.

The same grief overtook Richards now, as he thought of those bright days, as the mild, moist air bathed his aching joints. He remembered a summer day in 1931, the very first time he had killed a woman. He had been bumming his way across Illinois, and had just gotten off an eastbound freight to see if he could earn a bite to eat by doing some chores when he saw her. She had been near his own age (a fetish with him—as he had grown older, so had his victims), and very pretty, though dressed poorly. She was picking daffodils by the side of the track, and he had said hello to her, and they had talked, and she told him that she often came down to the track to pick flowers, and he thought she spoke as if she were simple-minded.

And then the thought had come to him for the first time, the thought that would come again scores of times before age slowed him and dulled the savagery, blunted the need, the thought that he was alone with her here, that no one had seen him get off the freight, and no one would see him get on another one that would carry him away. And his mind told him that where the girl’s life was concerned he was God, and, as he felt the God he had read of in the Old Testament was wont to do, he killed. The hunger of which he had felt only small pangs became insatiable, and he killed her, doing other things before and after, things of which he had not known he was capable, but which, in retrospect, did not trouble him. He did decide, however, that a pocketknife was not very effective for that kind of work, and resolved to use a larger blade in the future. And when he had cleaned himself, hidden the body, and leapt into the open boxcar door of another freight, he knew that he had found his life’s purpose.

A garbled curse broke his reverie, and he looked down and saw Anderson, his roommate, smashing his walker up and down as if he were killing ants. Richards saw that the rubber tip of the back left leg had become wedged between the root of a tree and the edge of the sidewalk.

“Do you need help?” Richards called down in his gentle tenor. “Do you want me to call a nurse?”

“Go to hell, goddammit,” Anderson replied, as Richards had known he would, and battered the hapless walker all the harder until he finally extricated the leg. He swore often, but always, Richards thought, with the air of a man who felt uncomfortable with the words he used. Anderson had been a small town used car dealer for fifty years, and, beside belonging to their mutual organization, was also a member of the Rotary, the Lions’ Club, and the Odd Fellows, and had been active in his church, none of which smiled on blasphemy. Anderson, Richards theorized, had always been a closet blasphemer, and now age permitted him liberties.

Richards, on the other hand, had taken liberties ever since 1931, when the so-called Midwest Ripper had begun his nine year killing spree that had claimed eighteen female victims (eighteen who were found, at any rate), During this time Richards worked for a Chicago firm selling cookware door to door from the safety of an anonymous company car. His territory stretched from southern Michigan to northern Kentucky, and from the Mississippi River to central Ohio. It was a large area, filled with possibilities, and not once in nine years did anyone in Chicago mention that Richards’ territory was the same as the Ripper’s. Richards, however, took the precaution of never killing a woman in Michigan. Only many years later, when he read of geographical patterns in serial killings, did he realize that his evasive maneuvers were far ahead of their time, as were the killings themselves. He took pride in that.

On the balcony, he paused, felt a stirring in his abdomen, told himself to go in and relieve the pressure before he had an accident. If he had an accident, then he would have to be cleaned up, and that would take too much time away from this lovely, perfect day, from the warm sun, the balmy air.

He made it in time, congratulated himself, and, as he left his room, received a smile from Marianne, the nurse on duty. Then he got a styrofoam cup of decaffeinated coffee from the large, metal urn and took it back out onto the balcony, thinking about Marianne. He could have easily killed her. She was the type he wanted during what he thought of as his second, more mature period, after the war. He had been 34, older than a lot of the enlistees, but he had worked hard, taken initiative, and had been a sergeant when he left the Army five years later. The legalized killing had been good for him, and though he had not felt the ecstasy as he had with the women, it was, temporarily, enough.

In 1945 he felt as if his hunger had been satisfied for life, and gave up the road, moved to a small town in Indiana, where, through his Army contacts, he took a job as an assistant manager at a drug store, and, for the next four years, became as bourgeois and respectable as he would ever be. This was the time he had accepted his boss’s invitation to join the organization which now housed him in his old age.

But in 1949 the aching need had returned, and he left the small town and went back to the Chicago firm, where, despite a ten year hiatus, there were people in sales and in personnel who recalled his previous successes, his great drive, and rehired him. His work of selling started anew, as did the real work of his soul, done with blade and hands and lips and tongue, sometimes in darkness, but most often and most joyously in the light, on the warm, sun-dappled, mossy floors of forests, or upon lush mattresses of bent wheat, or on grass as green as a hundred memories.

The women were all like Marianne, older, in their forties, with figures that had filled out, and round, rosy faces. Many of them were widowed by the war, and ached for a tall, strong, and handsome man like Richards to sweep them away in his big black car, fill the needs of which they had not been aware, make them more than women, transform them past their sundered flesh, create legends of them. By 1950 it was obvious to all that the Midwest Ripper had returned.

The notoriety dismayed Richards, as it had in the thirties. He wished for anonymity, and read the stories in the newspapers only to see how much was known, if any detail could draw the search to him. Only once, in 1953, did someone see a black car, either a Pontiac or a Dodge, near the house where a victim lived, but the witness, a child, had not recalled nor even thought to look at the license plate. Richards was relieved, as he never had any wish to be caught. He thought that if that tired cliché of criminology was true, it was true of men other than himself.

His last killing was in December of 1955, a month before his fiftieth birthday. When he finished, he was tired, and felt only a ghost of the exultation that had previously filled him. Was it, he wondered at the time, because his victims were older too? Because they had lived more of their lives, was there less vitality released by the knife, less life in the blood that flowed? His passion was still there, but cloaked with thick velvet, tired and tiresome, as if he were like other men his age, men married for years, making love to women who had no more surprises to share. Or maybe, he thought, he was just getting older.

It was possible, wasn’t it? As men entered their fifties and sixties, youthful passions flagged, things that were of burning interest no longer retained their novelty. The lust that made a young man of twenty seek out whores was dead in men of eighty. Such a diminution of fire was not instantaneous. It was not there one day and gone the next. Rather, Richards knew that it subsided slowly, the flames fading to glowing embers, and then to the last sparks that gleamed only when blown upon, and finally to cold and dusty ashes, all heat gone, incapable of flaming again.

Richards sighed and shook his head, then took a sip of the decaffeinated coffee. What he could taste of it was bitter, and he wished his diabetes allowed him to use sugar. There were packets of Sweet ’n Low, but he did not relish the thought of putting unnecessary chemicals into his body. He had never smoked, and seldom drank alcohol. Indeed, he had not had a taste of whiskey in over thirty years. No, it was never drink that had driven him to what he did. He had carried his own drives within him.

For years he had looked back, struggling to psychoanalyze himself, but found nothing. His childhood had been happy, he had been loved by both his parents (who had loved each other as well), he had never tortured animals, his early sexual experiences were as normal as the next boy’s. None of the patterns seemed to apply to him. There was no reason.

There was only that first summer day, the pretty girl picking daffodils, the knowledge of what he could do with her, and the will to do it. Sometimes he thought that will was the only difference between him and other men. Everyone had the desire to—how could they not? But something held them back, something that he mercifully did not possess. It was the only way he could comprehend it all.

Such a warm day it was. A day like this.

Then someone new entered the plaza, an old woman in a wheelchair, pushed by an overweight man in his fifties. Despite the weather, the woman wore a heavy cloth coat of once-bright red that fell far past her knees, a gray knitted cap that fit her like a second, diseased skin, and a green scarf that hid her nose and mouth. Only her eyes and her hands, which for some inexplicable reason were not swathed in gloves, were visible, and Richards could see that the fingers were crooked claws. Arthritis, no doubt. Then the eyes looked up at him where he stood on the balcony, and he saw recognition gleam in them, recognition that, in another second, was mirrored in his own.

He had seen this woman before, but could not remember where. A former customer? A neighbor? A victim? No, all his victims were long gone, weren’t they?

Then he remembered. Except for one. The one who had not quite become a victim. And he knew who the old woman was.

Her eyes, pink marbles in putty, widened as her wheelchair approached the balcony, and her head continued to tilt back as if to keep him in sight. Just when she was almost directly beneath him, her neck reached the angle where pain began, and the head jerked, the eyes slammed shut as she and the man disappeared into the building.

Richards stood for a while, thinking. The woman was as old as he was, so perhaps she was senile. Wheelchair-bound, arthritic to the point of agony—what were the odds her mind was any less worn? Finally he smiled, and decided to go downstairs to meet the new arrival.

She screamed when he rounded the corner. He had expected some sort of reaction if she was indeed who he thought she was, but the scream was the worst possible reassurance that his memory had been correct. It was a mindless scream, a cry of pure emotion, unleavened by logic or the desire for communication. Though Richards had heard many such screams in years past, he was not prepared for the sheer intensity of it, nor for the way it made him feel. For an instant it was like being young again.

“Mrs. Jenks!” said Marianne, used to dealing with the quirks of the aged. “It’s only our Mr. Richards.”

“It’s him!” said Mrs. Jenks through a mouthful of loose dentures. “It’s him, he’s the one!” The claws attempted to point, but to no good effect. It looked more, thought Richards, like the gesticulations of the Witch of Endor. The other hand plucked at the loose scarf around her neck as if it was cutting off her breath.

“Mother had a bad experience some years back,” said the man breathily. The long push in the wheelchair appeared to have tired him. “She was… almost attacked.”

“Ah,” Richards said sympathetically, trying to ignore the woman’s babbling.

“It was after my father died—”

“It’s him, David…”

“She was rather old to be—”

“I tell you it’s him.”

“—to be attacked like that. She’s never been able to—”

“Listen to me, listen, he’s the one who did it!”

“—put it out of her mind. Now, Mother, it’s all right, this isn’t the man…”

“You can’t leave me here, not here with him. He’ll kill me, kill me, do awful things to me.”

“I believe it,” came a voice from behind Richards. He turned around and saw Anderson leaning on his walker. “Son of a bitch steals my candy.”

“Mr. Richards doesn’t steal your candy, Mr. Anderson. You eat all your candy.”

“Only eat a little,” Anderson said, hobbling into their midst. “He steals the rest.”

“Now you know that Mr. Richards is diabetic,” Marianne went on patiently. “He can’t eat candy. You eat your candy but you forget you ate it. Now why don’t you go back to your room and put in your teeth?”

“Son of a bitch steels my teeth.”

Through this conversation Mrs. Jenks continued to pluck at her son’s sleeve and mutter things about Richards, who kept smiling gently at both her and Anderson, raising his eyebrows every now and then to Marianne and Mrs. Jenks’s son, as if to say, I know, I understand.

Eventually Marianne led Mrs. Jenks and her son away, and Richards gave a friendly little wave to the old woman as she struggled to turn her head and keep her eyes on him. In another minute the elevator doors closed on them, and Richards and Anderson were alone in the hall.

Anderson squinting and hunched over like a malignant troll, eyed him. “You’re gonna kill her, aren’tcha?”

“Bob,” Richards said, “you’re a very nice man, and so am I, and I don’t take your candy, and I would never, never harm Mrs. Jenks. Happy now? Then why don’t you do what Marianne suggested and go put your teeth in.”

“Why don’t you go and shit yourself,” Anderson said, and, with that bon mot, turned in a series of jerky moves that undercut his approximation of the satisfied air of a man who knows another’s weakness.

Slowly Richards’s smile splintered, and he walked down the hall and up the stairs just in time to see Mrs. Jenks being wheeled by her overweight, wheezing son into the room directly across from his own. Of course. Mrs. Hodgkins had died in the infirmary last week, so there was the vacancy. Mrs. Jenks would be Mrs. Wilson’s new roommate, tired, deaf Mrs. Wilson, who would not be able to hear Mrs. Jenks’s crazed accusations, paranoid fantasies. Fantasies, at least, to the other people in the homes.

Richards stepped onto the balcony again. It was still empty. What was wrong with his fellow dodderers? Why was everyone not out here on such a day?

Such a day.

And then, with his newly found causality, Richards saw the connection, realized the purpose behind the day. It was too much of a coincidence that the glory of this day should come at the same time as the return of Mrs. Jenks into his life. Only a fool would say that there was no correlation between the two events. The day, the scream, both took Richards back—the warmth of the day to the glories of long ago, and the scream to the efforts of not too long ago, back only to 1973, when he had tried once more, once for old time’s sake, an aging man’s attempt to reclaim the ecstatic pangs of his prime.

He had been 67 then, and retired, and for some weeks had felt the provocation of desire, but hesitated, unsure of his ability to perform. So he had decided to sublimate the desire through nostalgia, and that summer undertook an excursion to the sites of his previous triumphs, driving through the Midwest, stopping at places that looked familiar, that progress had not changed. It had been remarkable how much he remembered, how a curve in the road through a field, or a stone railroad bridge overgrown with laurel, could roll back the years. He got out of the car often, and walked into groves of trees, remembering, often standing over what graves were still there, undiscovered after so many years. Then he would kneel by them and touch the earth, knowing what souvenirs of joy lay beneath. Once or twice, recalling a particularly moving experience on some lovely afternoon when all had been perfection, he cried.

And it was while he was crying, twenty yards off a hiking path in Indiana, that Mrs. Jenks came along. She was walking firmly then, on the path and alone, a canvas knapsack on her back, a canteen slung over her shoulder, a healthy, retired woman, he thought, seeking exercise and communion with the outdoors. The day had been so perfect, his memories so overpowering, that it was with no thought at all that he burst onto the path, ready to live his aging fantasies, remembered realities, again. His face was still moist with tears, and he looked to make certain the woman was alone, and said, “Help me, please, my wife is back in there—” And the woman paused in surprise, dropped her guard at his plea long enough for him to lash out and strike her in the side of the head with a clenched fist.

She went down, moaning, and he thrust his hands under her arms, dragged her into the brush, tore at her clothes, and, too late, realized that he did not have a knife. Frenzied, he ripped open her knapsack, but found only snacks and a paperback book.

There was no knife. It was wrong. The palette of flesh lay before him, but what he had to do could not be done without a knife. Without a knife there was no joy, no beauty, and he suddenly realized that there now lay within him not the slightest sense of pleasure, only of frenzy. He felt only the strain of an aging body, his heart racing, his chest rising and falling as though someone was hugging him tightly.

He shut his eyes, put his hands on his pounding, tripping heart, and prayed to a god in whom he did not yet believe for the panic to pass. When he opened his eyes the woman was looking at him, her expression dazed, her hands beginning to flop like fish at her sides. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, then staggered to his feet and ran through the brush, onto the trail, and down it to his car, into which he fell, pains in his side like hot needles.

As he drove away, he consoled himself with the fact that the woman had been coming out of the woods, so she had not seen the car. And she could not have known him, for he was hundreds of miles away from his home, and he had never seen her before. No, they would not find him. She would have to hold her clothes together and write this off as a nightmare from which she walked away.

It had been a lesson. He was too old, he had told himself. Too old, too tired, too foolish. Richards had never again felt the hot urge, never until today, this spring day in the heart of winter, this perfect day, which he now knew had been made for him, all for him.

He realized that he had made a mistake with the woman he now knew as Mrs Jenks. He had let her walk away, but he should have killed her. He should have used a rock, or a branch, or choked her. But he had panicked. His age, his own death, had scared him too much, and now she had returned, returned so that things could be made right, so that an old man could know joy once again. This time, he told himself, he would be ready.

Richards was fairly certain that he would be caught, but it didn’t really matter anymore. Perhaps the experience of imprisonment, trial, and appeals would bring some needed novelty to his last few years. Certainly, he thought, prison could be little worse than sharing a room with Anderson. Besides, he probably wouldn’t go to prison, not with his physical problems. A state home, perhaps. Or maybe, just maybe, he could get away with it.

For the first time in years, Richards actually felt excited, as though there really was something worth living for. He felt a pressure in the crotch of his trousers and thought he might have to go inside again, then realized that it was not the demands of his bladder that caused the tightness, but other demands that he had not known for a long time, and he laughed at the discovery. Then he started to think about what he would do, and how he would do it.

When he went back to his room, he heard a low keening sound from the door of what was now Mrs. Jenks and Mrs. Wilson’s room, and guessed that Mrs. Jenks had been given a sedative to calm her. He hoped that she would receive another before bedtime. It would make things easier.

Several hours later, he was relieved to see that Mrs. Jenks was not in the dining hall for supper, which lent credence to his sedation theory. As Richards munched his soft and easily chewable meat loaf, he examined the butter knife that lay across the rim of his plate, and dismissed it. The blade was not at all sharp, and had only a blunt point. A steak knife would have been perfect, but they never had steak. It was too difficult for most of the guests to chew. No, it would have to be Anderson’s fudge knife.

The candy of which Anderson prattled, and unjustly accused Richards of stealing, was chocolate and peanut butter fudge that his daughter brought him. It came in trays of aluminum foil, and was firm enough that it needed to be cut with a sharp knife. Often Richards watched as Anderson sliced out a piece, put it in his mouth, and waited until it was soft before beginning to chew, open-mouthed, streams of brown snaking down the creases in his chin like thin worms. The knife was metal, horn-handled, and the blade was serrated and ended in a nasty point on which Anderson had cut his fingers more than once, cursing and licking the wound with the same inattentive lack of gusto with which he ate the fudge. While Anderson locked the candy in his closet when he had finished gumming it, he never put away the knife, which the nurse on duty cleaned whenever she saw it, and returned to his dresser top. It was always out, ever accessible.

The adhesive tape was easy to come by as well. It was not locked up, as were the drugs, and he simply entered a supply closet when the hall was empty, and put a full roll in his pocket. It was the white fabric kind, very strong.

Richards waited until midnight. He had no fear of falling asleep, for his excitement was too great for that. He got up, went into the bathroom, and evacuated his bowels, sitting and waiting until something happened. He could not risk having an accident, not tonight.

Then he removed his pajamas and put on his bathrobe so that he was naked beneath it. In one pocket he put the roll of tape and a wash cloth, in the other Anderson’s knife. He thought that even if he cleaned the knife and put it back afterwards, the police might be able to identify it. But then he recalled reading that they could tell less from cutting wounds than from stab wounds, and he had never stabbed, always cut. Stabbing was so brutal, and so final. It could end things too early.

Standing at the door of his room, he was, for a moment, afraid. His heart lurched like a rabid animal inside his chest, and he took deep breaths, made himself relax, stood there until he could raise his hand and not see it tremble. Then he opened the door a crack and looked out.

The hall was dimly lit, and he stuck out his head, looked both ways, saw no one. The door of the room across the hall was closed, and he stepped across to it and pushed gently. It swung silently inward, and when it was just wide enough to admit his shoulder, he passed through the opening and let the door drift shut.

The room glowed with pale yellow from a night light plugged into a wall socket near Mrs. Wilson’s bed. It was ceramic, and shaped like a quarter moon. There was a face sculpted on the inner edge, the mouth of which neither smiled nor frowned, and said nothing.

Mrs. Wilson was asleep, her head turned toward the wall, away from Richards. Mrs. Jenks lay on her back, her eyes closed, breathing deeply under the sheet and blanket. Richards very gently shook her, but she did not awaken. He put the wash cloth over her mouth, then put tape over it and around her head, lifting it from the pillow. By the time he had finished putting tape around her wrists, she was starting to stir, and he wrenched her arms up, and wound the tape around the top two legs of the bed.

He was relieved to see that Mrs. Jenks did not kick with her as yet unsecured legs. She tried, but whatever kept her in a wheelchair also prevented her from thrashing about, and Richards realized that there was no need to tape her legs. They would stay in whatever position he put them. All in all, it seemed quite safe. There were whines and moans from beneath the wash cloth, but nothing that would carry to the next room, and sleeping Mrs. Wilson was stone deaf, mercifully for her and Richards both.

But before Richards took out Anderson’s fudge knife, he did one more thing. He walked to the window and opened it. Even at midnight, the air was unseasonably warm, and Richards thought he could scent the promise of spring in it. He stood there for a long time, marveling at the way life occasionally worked out, how the little things blended together so that loose ends could be tied up, so that an old man could die happy, possessed by yesterday’s memories, while creating new ones. He sighed, remembering, measuring out his years in crimson drops, uncounted seams of flesh, marking the red and yellow days that had brought him to this final, perfect day.

Then he smiled, and turned for the last time to his occupation, his heart’s work, his soul’s dream. He worked on into the night, not realizing that Mrs. Wilson had awakened, turned, and observed his ministrations with as much concern and as much knowledge of what was happening as the wide-eyed, expressionless, ceramic moon. Had he known, he might have welcomed the audience, but his attention was so fixed on Mrs. Jenks that he did not.

So Mrs. Wilson and the moon continued to watch until the darkness faded and Richards’s heart burst with the passion that his frail body could no longer bear, and sunbeams appeared on the ceiling, worked their way down the wall, and lit the tableau of joy and death just in time for Marianne to see it as she entered the room, screaming and dropping the little tray that held pills in paper cups. The scream brought others into the room, and Anderson, leaning on his walker, saw and trembled.

“He’ll burn in hell,” Anderson said, not knowing with what ease Richards had died on this glorious morning, this most perfect of days.




SEE HOW THEY RUN

by Ramsey Campbell







Ramsey Campbell has appeared in virtually every volume of The Year’s Best Horror Stories since the first volume (including those edited by my two predecessors, Richard Davis and Gerald W. Page). I for one am growing tired of writing introductions to his stories each year. I mean, what can I tell you that is new? Did you know that Campbell once owned a wine-drinking rabbit named Flopsy? Died of liver failure. Don’t know if they et it.

Born in Liverpool on January 4, 1946, Campbell has gone from teenaged Arkham House prodigy and protégé to one of the foremost horror writers ever. Much of this at the expense of his native Liverpool, which he has repeatedly used as setting for his twisted explorations of the strange and disturbing. Point of fact, last year Tor Books published a new collection of Campbell’s stories, Strange Things and Stranger Places. Campbell now lives in Merseyside with wife and two maniac children. He has had numerous anthologies (which he has edited), short story collections (which he has written), and novels (beginning with The Doll Who Ate His Mother). Don’t venture out in Liverpool after dark. Asked about his latest project, Campbell reports: “Right now I’m working on a new novel, The One Safe Place. Sounds like a fishmonger.” That’s an English joke. Doubt the novel is.





Throughout the reading of the charges Foulsham felt as if the man in the dock was watching him. December sunshine like ice transmuted into illumination slanted through the high windows of the courtroom, spotlighting the murderer. With his round slightly pouting face and large dark moist eyes Fishwick resembled a schoolboy caught red-handed, Foulsham thought, except that surely no schoolboy would have confronted the prospect of retribution with such a look of imperfectly concealed amusement mingled with impatience.

The indictment was completed. “How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” Fishwick said in a high clear voice with just a hint of mischievous emphasis on the first word. Foulsham had the impression that he was tempted to take a bow, but instead Fishwick folded his arms and glanced from the prosecuting counsel to the defense, cueing their speeches so deftly that Foulsham felt his own lips twitch.

“… a series of atrocities so cold-blooded that the jury may find it almost impossible to believe that any human being could be capable of them…” “… evidence that a brilliant mind was tragically damaged by a lifetime of abuse…” Fishwick met both submissions with precisely the same attitude, eyebrows slightly raised, a forefinger drumming on his upper arm as though he were commenting in code on the proceedings. His look of lofty patience didn’t change as one of the policemen who had arrested him gave evidence, and Foulsham sensed that Fishwick was eager to get to the meat of the case. But the judge adjourned the trial for the day, and Fishwick contented himself with a faint anticipatory smirk.

The jurors were escorted past the horde of reporters and through the business district to their hotel. Rather to Foulsham’s surprise, none of his fellow jurors mentioned Fishwick, neither over dinner nor afterward, when the jury congregated in the cavernous lounge as if they were reluctant to be alone. Few of the jurors showed much enthusiasm for breakfast, so that Foulsham felt slightly guilty for clearing his plate. He was the last to leave the table and the first to reach the door of the hotel, telling himself that he wanted to be done with the day’s ordeal. Even the sight of a newsvendor’s placard which proclaimed FISHWICK JURY SEE HORROR PICTURES TODAY failed to deter him.

Several of the jurors emitted sounds of distress as the pictures were passed along the front row. A tobacconist shook his head over them, a gesture which seemed on the point of growing uncontrollable. Some of Foulsham’s companions on the back row craned forward for a preview, but Foulsham restrained himself; they were here to be dispassionate, after all. As the pictures came toward him, their progress marked by growls of outrage and murmurs of dismay, he began to feel unprepared, in danger of performing clumsily in front of the massed audience. When at last the pictures reached him, he gazed at them for some time without looking up.

They weren’t as bad as he had secretly feared. Indeed, what struck him most was their economy and skill. With just a few strokes of a black felt-tipped pen, and the occasional embellishment of red, Fishwick had captured everything he wanted to convey about his subjects: the grotesqueness which had overtaken their gait as they attempted to escape once he’d severed a muscle; the way the crippled dance of each victim gradually turned into a crawl—into less than that once Fishwick had dealt with both arms. No doubt he’d been as skillful with the blade as he was with the pen. Foulsham was reexamining the pictures when the optician next to him nudged him. “The rest of us have to look, too, you know.”

Foulsham waited several seconds before looking up. Everyone in the courtroom was watching the optician now—everyone but Fishwick. This time there was no question that the man in the dock was gazing straight at Foulsham, whose face stiffened into a mask he wanted to believe was expressionless. He was struggling to look away when the last juror gave an appalled cry and began to crumple the pictures. The judge hammered an admonition, the usher rushed to reclaim the evidence, and Fishwick stared at Foulsham as if they were sharing a joke. The flurry of activity let Foulsham look away, and he did his best to copy the judge’s expression of rebuke tempered with sympathy for the distressed woman.

That night he couldn’t get to sleep for hours. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the sketches Fishwick had made. The trial wouldn’t last forever, he reminded himself; soon his life would return to normal. Every so often, as he lay in the dark which smelled of bath soap and disinfectant and carpet shampoo, the taps in the bathroom released a gout of water with a choking sound. Each time that happened, the pictures in his head lurched closer, and he felt as if he was being watched. Would he feel like that over Christmas if, as seemed likely, the trial were to continue into the new year? But it lacked almost a week to Christmas when Fishwick was called to the witness box, and Fishwick chose that moment, much to the discomfiture of his lawyer, to plead guilty after all.

The development brought gasps from the public gallery, an exodus from the press benches, mutters of disbelief and anger from the jury; but Foulsham experienced only relief. When the court rose, as though to celebrate the turn of events, he thought the case was over until he saw that the judge was withdrawing to speak to the lawyers. “The swine,” the tobacconist whispered fiercely, glaring at Fishwick. “He made all those people testify for nothing.”

Soon the judge and the lawyers returned. It had apparently been decided that the defense should call several psychiatrists to state their views of Fishwick’s mental condition. The first of them had scarcely opened his mouth, however, when Fishwick began to express impatience as severe as Foulsham sensed more than one of the jurors was suffering. The man in the dock protruded his tongue like a caricature of a madman and emitted a creditable imitation of a jolly banjo which all but drowned out the psychiatrist’s voice. Eventually the judge had Fishwick removed from the court, though not without a struggle, and the psychiatrists were heard.

Fishwick’s mother had died giving birth to him, and his father had never forgiven him. The boy’s first schoolteacher had seen the father tearing up pictures Fishwick had painted for him. There was some evidence that the father had been prone to uncontrollable fits of violence against the child, though the boy had always insisted that he had broken his own leg by falling downstairs. All of Fishwick’s achievements as a young man seemed to have antagonized the father—his exercising his leg for years until he was able to conceal his limp, his enrollment in an art college, the praise which his teachers heaped on him and which he valued less than a word of encouragement from his father. He’d been in his twenties, and still living with his father, when a gallery had offered to exhibit his work. Nobody knew what his father had said which had caused Fishwick to destroy all his paintings in despair and to overcome his disgust at working in his father’s shop in order to learn the art of butchery. Before long he had been able to rent a bed-sitter, and thirteen months after moving into it he’d tracked down one of his former schoolfellows who used to call him Quasimodo on account of his limp and his dispirited slouch. Four victims later, Fishwick had made away with his father and the law had caught up with him.

Very little of this had been leaked to the press. Foulsham found himself imagining Fishwick brooding sleeplessly in a cheerless room, his creative nature and his need to prove himself festering within him until he was unable to resist the compulsion to carry out an act which would make him feel meaningful. The other jurors were less impressed. “I might have felt some sympathy for him if he’d gone straight for his father,” the hairdresser declared once they were in the jury room.

Fishwick had taken pains to refine his technique first, Foulsham thought, and might have said so if the tobacconist hadn’t responded. “I’ve no sympathy for that cold fish,” the man said between puffs at a briar. “You can see he’s still enjoying himself. He only pleaded not guilty so that all those people would have to be reminded what they went through.”

“We can’t be sure of that,” Foulsham protested.

“More worried about him than about his victims, are you?” the tobacconist demanded, and the optician intervened. “I know it seems incredible that anyone could enjoy doing what he did,” she said to Foulsham, “but that creature’s not like us.”

Foulsham would have liked to be convinced of that. After all, if Fishwick weren’t insane, mustn’t that mean anyone was capable of such behavior? “I think he pleaded guilty when he realized that everyone was going to hear all those things about him he wanted to keep secret,” he said. “I think he thought that if he pleaded guilty the psychiatrists wouldn’t be called.”

The eleven stared at him. “You think too much,” the tobacconist said.

The hairdresser broke the awkward silence by clearing her throat. “I never thought I’d say this, but I wish they’d bring back hanging just for him.”

“That’s the Christmas present he deserves,” said the veterinarian who had crumpled the evidence.

The foreman of the jury, a bank manager, proposed that it was time to discuss what they’d learned at the trial. “Personally, I don’t mind where they lock him up so long as they throw away the key.”

His suggestion didn’t satisfy most of the jurors. The prosecuting counsel had questioned the significance of the psychiatric evidence, and the judge had hinted broadly in his summing-up that it was inconclusive. It took all the jurors apart from Foulsham less than half an hour to dismiss the notion that Fishwick might have been unable to distinguish right from wrong, and then they gazed expectantly at Foulsham, who had a disconcerting sense that Fishwick was awaiting his decision, too. “I don’t suppose it matters where they lock him up,” he began, and got no further; the rest of the jury responded with cheers and applause, which sounded ironic to him. Five minutes later they’d agreed to recommend a life sentence for each of Fishwick’s crimes. “That should keep him out of mischief,” the bank manager exulted.

As the jury filed into the courtroom, Fishwick leaned forward to scrutinize their faces. His own was blank. The foreman stood up to announce the verdict, and Foulsham was suddenly grateful to have that done on his behalf. He hoped Fishwick would be put away for good. When the judge confirmed six consecutive life sentences, Foulsham released a breath which he hadn’t been aware of holding. Fishwick had shaken his head when asked if he had anything to say before sentence was passed, and his face seemed to lose its definition as he listened to the judge’s pronouncement. His gaze trailed across the jury as he was led out of the dock.

Once Foulsham was out of the building, in the crowded streets above which glowing Santas had been strung up, he didn’t feel as liberated as he’d hoped. Presumably that would happen when sleep had caught up with him. Just now he was uncomfortably aware how all the mannequins in the store windows had been twisted into posing. Whenever shoppers turned from gazing into a window he thought they were emerging from the display. As he dodged through the shopping precinct, trying to avoid shoppers rendered angular by packages, families mined with small children, clumps of onlookers surrounding the open suitcases of street traders, he felt as if the maze of bodies were crippling his progress.

Foulsham’s had obviously been thriving in his absence. The shop was full of people buying Christmas cards and rolled-up posters and framed prints. “Are you glad it’s over?” Annette asked him. “He won’t ever be let out, will he?”

“Was he as horrible as the papers made out?” Jackie was eager to know.

“I can’t say. I didn’t see them,” Foulsham admitted, experiencing a surge of panic as Jackie produced a pile of tabloids from under the counter. “I’d rather forget,” he said hastily.

“You don’t need to read about it, Mr Foulsham, you lived through it,” Annette said. “You look as though Christmas can’t come too soon for you.”

“If I oversleep tomorrow I’ll be in on Monday,” Foulsham promised, and trudged out of the shop.

All the taxis were taken, and so he had to wait almost half an hour for a bus. If he hadn’t been so exhausted he might have walked home. As the bus laboured uphill he clung to the dangling strap which was looped around his wrist and stared at a grimacing rubber clown whose limbs were struggling to unbend from the bag into which they’d been forced. Bodies swayed against him like meat in a butcher’s lorry, until he was afraid of being trapped out of reach of the doors when the bus came to his stop.

As he climbed his street, where frost glittered as if the tarmac were reflecting the sky, he heard children singing carols in the distance or on television. He let himself into the house on the brow of the hill, and the poodles in the ground-floor flat began to yap as though he were a stranger. They continued barking while he sorted through the mail which had accumulated on the hall table: bills, advertisements, Christmas cards from people he hadn’t heard from since last year. “Only me, Mrs Hutton,” he called as he heard her and her stick plodding through her rooms toward the clamor. Jingling his keys as further proof of his identity, and feeling unexpectedly like a jailor, he hurried upstairs and unlocked his door.

Landscapes greeted him. Two large framed paintings flanked the window of the main room: a cliff bearing strata of ancient stone above a deserted beach, fields spiky with hedgerows and tufted with sheep below a horizon where a spire poked at fat clouds as though to pop them; beyond the window, the glow of streetlamps streamed downhill into a pool of light miles wide from which pairs of headlight beams were flocking. The pleasure and the sense of all-embracing calm which he habitually experienced on coming home seemed to be standing back from him. He dumped his suitcase in the bedroom and hung up his coat, then he took the radio into the kitchen.

He didn’t feel like eating much. He finished off a slice of toast laden with baked beans, and wondered whether Fishwick had eaten yet, and what his meal might be. As soon as he’d sluiced plate and fork he made for his armchair with the radio. Before long, however, he’d had enough of the jazz age. Usually the dance music of that era roused his nostalgia for innocence, not least because the music was older than he was, but just now it seemed too good to be true. So did the views on the wall and beyond the window, and the programs on the television—the redemption of a cartoon Scrooge, commercials chortling “Ho ho ho,” an appeal on behalf of people who would be on their own at Christmas, a choir reiterating “Let nothing you display,” the syntax of which he couldn’t grasp. As his mind fumbled with it, his eyelids drooped. He nodded as though agreeing with himself that he had better switch off the television, and then he was asleep.

Fishwick wakened him. Agony flared through his right leg. As he lurched out of the chair, trying to blink away the blur which coated his eyes, he was afraid the leg would fail him. He collapsed back into the chair, thrusting the leg in front of him, digging his fingers into the calf in an attempt to massage away the cramp. When at last he was able to bend the leg without having to grit his teeth, he set about recalling what had invaded his sleep.

The nine o’clock news had been ending. It must have been a newsreader who had spoken Fishwick’s name. Foulsham hadn’t been fully awake, after all; no wonder he’d imagined that the voice sounded like the murderer’s. Perhaps it had been the hint of amusement which his imagination had seized upon, though would a newsreader have sounded amused? He switched off the television and waited for the news on the local radio station, twinges in his leg ensuring that he stayed awake.

He’d forgotten that there was no ten o’clock news. He attempted to phone the radio station, but five minutes of hanging on brought him only a message like an old record on which the needle had stuck, advising him to try later. By eleven he’d hobbled to bed. The newsreader raced through accounts of violence and drunken driving, then rustled her script. “Some news just in,” she said. “Police report that convicted murderer Desmond Fishwick has taken his own life while in custody. Full details in our next bulletin.”

That would be at midnight. Foulsham tried to stay awake, not least because he didn’t understand how, if the local station had only just received the news, the national network could have broadcast it more than ninety minutes earlier. But when midnight came he was asleep. He wakened in the early hours and heard voices gabbling beside him, insomniacs trying to assert themselves on a phone-in program before the presenter cut them short. Foulsham switched off the radio and imagined the city riddled with cells in which people lay or paced, listening to the babble of their own caged obsessions. At least one of them—Fishwick—had put himself out of his misery. Foulsham massaged his leg until the ache relented sufficiently to let sleep overtake him.

The morning newscast said that Fishwick had killed himself last night, but little else. The tabloids were less reticent, Foulsham discovered once he’d dressed and hurried to the newsagent’s. MANIAC’S BLOODY SUICIDE. SAVAGE KILLER SAVAGES HIMSELF. HE BIT OFF MORE THAN HE COULD CHEW. Fishwick had gnawed the veins out of his arms and died from loss of blood.

He must have been insane to do that to himself, Foulsham thought, clutching his heavy collar shut against a vicious wind as he limped downhill. While bathing he’d been tempted to take the day off, but now he didn’t want to be alone with the images which the news had planted in him. Everyone around him on the bus seemed to be reading one or other of the tabloids which displayed Fishwick’s face on the front page like posters for the suicide, and he felt as though all the paper eyes were watching him. Once he was off the bus he stuffed his newspaper into the nearest bin.

Annette and Jackie met him with smiles which looked encouraging yet guarded, and he knew they’d heard about the death. The shop was already full of customers buying last-minute cards and presents for people they’d almost forgotten, and it was late morning before the staff had time for a talk. Foulsham braced himself for the onslaught of questions and comments, only to find that Jackie and Annette were avoiding the subject of Fishwick, waiting for him to raise it so that they would know how he felt, not suspecting that he didn’t know himself. He tried to lose himself in the business of the shop, to prove to them that they needn’t be so careful of him; he’d never realised how much their teasing and joking meant to him. But they hardly spoke to him until the last customer had departed, and then he sensed that they’d discussed what to say to him. “Don’t you let it matter to you, Mr Foulsham. He didn’t,” Annette said.

“Don’t you dare let it spoil your evening,” Jackie told him.

She was referring to the staff’s annual dinner. While he hadn’t quite forgotten about it, he seemed to have gained an impression that it hadn’t much to do with him. He locked the shop and headed for home to get changed. After twenty minutes of waiting in a bus queue whose disgruntled mutters felt like flies bumbling mindlessly around him he walked home, the climb aggravating his limp.

He put on his dress shirt and bow tie and slipped his dark suit out of the bag in which it had been hanging since its January visit to the cleaners. As soon as he was dressed he went out again, away from the sounds of Mrs. Hutton’s three-legged trudge and of the dogs, which hadn’t stopped barking since he had entered the house. Nor did he care for the way Mrs. Hutton had opened her door and peered at him with a suspiciousness which hadn’t entirely vanished when she saw him.

He was at the restaurant half an hour before the rest of the party. He sat at the bar, sipping a Scotch and then another, thinking of people who must do so every night in preference to sitting alone at home, though might some of them be trying to avoid doing something worse? He was glad when his party arrived, Annette and her husband, Jackie and her new boyfriend, even though Annette’s greeting as he stood up disconcerted him. “Are you all right, Mr. Foulsham?” she said, and he felt unpleasantly wary until he realised that she must be referring to his limp.

By the time the turkey arrived at the table, the party had opened a third bottle of wine and the conversation had floated loose. “What was he like, Mr. Foulsham,” Jackie’s boyfriend said, “the feller you put away?”

Annette coughed delicately. “Mr. Foulsham may not want to talk about it.”

“It’s all right, Annette. Perhaps I should. He was—” Foulsham said, and trailed off, wishing that he’d taken advantage of the refuge she was offering. “Maybe he was just someone whose mind gave way.”

“I hope you’ve no regrets,” Annette’s husband said. “You should be proud.”

“Of what?”

“Of stopping the killing. He won’t kill anyone else.”

Foulsham couldn’t argue with that, and yet he felt uneasy, especially when Jackie’s boyfriend continued to interrogate him. If Fishwick didn’t matter, as Annette had insisted when Foulsham was closing the shop, why was everyone so interested in hearing about him? He felt as though they were resurrecting the murderer, in Foulsham’s mind if nowhere else. He tried to describe Fishwick, and related as much of his own experience of the trial as he judged they could stomach. All that he left unsaid seemed to gather in his mind, especially the thought of Fishwick extracting the veins from his arms.

Annette and her husband gave him a lift home. He meant to invite them up for coffee and brandy, but the poodles started yapping the moment he climbed out of the car. “Me again, Mrs. Hutton,” he slurred as he hauled himself along the banister. He switched on the light in his main room and gazed at the landscapes on the wall, but his mind couldn’t grasp them. He brushed his teeth and drank as much water as he could take, then he huddled under the blankets, willing the poodles to shut up.

He didn’t sleep for long. He kept wakening with a stale rusty taste in his mouth. He’d drunk too much, that was why he felt so hot and sticky and closed in. When he eased himself out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom, the dogs began to bark. He rinsed out his mouth but was unable to determine if the water which he spat into the sink was discolored. He crept out of the bathroom with a glass of water in each hand and crawled shivering into bed, trying not to grind his teeth as pictures which he would have given a good deal not to see rushed at him out of the dark.

In the morning he felt as though he hadn’t slept at all. He lay in the creeping sunlight, too exhausted either to sleep or to get up, until he heard the year’s sole Sunday delivery sprawl on the doormat. He washed and dressed gingerly, cursing the poodles, whose yapping felt like knives emerging from his skull, and stumbled down to the hall.

He lined up the new cards on his mantelpiece, where there was just enough room for them. Last year he’d had to stick cards onto a length of parcel tape and hang them from the cornice. This year cards from businesses outnumbered those from friends, unless tomorrow restored the balance. He was signing cards in response to some of the Sunday delivery when he heard Mrs. Hutton and the poodles leave the house.

He limped to the window and looked down on her. The two leashes were bunched in her left hand, her right was clenched on her stick. She was leaning backward as the dogs ran her downhill, and he had never seen her look so crippled. He turned away, unsure why he found the spectacle disturbing. Perhaps he should catch up on his sleep while the dogs weren’t there to trouble it, except that if he slept now he might be guaranteeing himself another restless night. The prospect of being alone in the early hours and unable to sleep made him so nervous that he grabbed the phone before he had thought who he could ask to visit.

Nobody had time for him today. Of the people ranked on the mantelpiece, two weren’t at home, two were fluttery with festive preparations, one was about to drive several hundred miles to collect his parents, one was almost incoherent with a hangover. All of them invited Foulsham to visit them over Christmas, most of them sounding sincere, but that wouldn’t take care of Sunday. He put on his overcoat and gloves and hurried downhill by a route designed to avoid Mrs. Hutton, and bought his Sunday paper on the way to a pub lunch.

The Bloody Mary wasn’t quite the remedy he was hoping for. The sight of the liquid discomforted him, and so did the scraping of the ice cubes against his teeth. Nor was he altogether happy with his lunch; the leg of chicken put him in mind of the process of severing it from the body. When he’d eaten as much as he could hold down, he fled.

The papery sky was smudged with darker clouds, images too nearly erased to be distinguishable. Its light seemed to permeate the city, reducing its fabric to little more than cardboard. He felt more present than anything around him, a sensation which he didn’t relish. He closed his eyes until he thought of someone to visit, a couple who’d lived in the house next to his and whose Christmas card invited him to drop in whenever he was passing their new address.

A double-decker bus on which he was the only passenger carried him across town and deposited him at the edge of the new suburb. The streets of squat houses which looked squashed by their tall roofs were deserted, presumably cleared by the Christmas television shows he glimpsed through windows, and his isolation made him feel watched. He limped into the suburb, glancing at the street names.

He hadn’t realized the suburb was so extensive. At the end of almost an hour of limping and occasionally resting, he still hadn’t found the address. The couple weren’t on the phone, or he would have tried to contact them. He might have abandoned the quest if he hadn’t felt convinced that he was about to come face-to-face with the name which, he had to admit, had slipped his mind. He hobbled across an intersection and then across its twin, where a glance to the left halted him. Was that the street he was looking for? Certainly the name seemed familiar. He strolled along the pavement, trying to conceal his limp, and stopped outside a house.

Though he recognized the number, it hadn’t been on the card. His gaze crawled up the side of the house and came to rest on the window set into the roof. At once he knew that he’d heard the address read aloud in the courtroom. It was where Fishwick had lived.

As Foulsham gazed fascinated at the small high window he imagined Fishwick gloating over the sketches he’d brought home, knowing that the widow from whom he rented the bed-sitter was downstairs and unaware of his secret. He came to himself with a shudder, and stumbled away, almost falling. He was so anxious to put the city between himself and Fishwick’s room that he couldn’t bear to wait for one of the infrequent Sunday buses. By the time he reached home, he was gritting his teeth so as not to scream at the ache in his leg. “Shut up,” he snarled at the alarmed poodles, “or I’ll—” and stumbled upstairs.

The lamps of the city were springing alight. Usually he enjoyed the spectacle, but now he felt compelled to look for Fishwick’s window among the distant roofs. Though he couldn’t locate it, he was certain that the windows were mutually visible. How often might Fishwick have gazed across the city toward him? Foulsham searched for tasks to distract himself—cleaned the oven, dusted the furniture and the tops of the picture frames, polished all his shoes, lined up the tins on the kitchen shelves in alphabetical order. When he could no longer ignore the barking which his every movement provoked, he went downstairs and rapped on Mrs. Hutton’s door.

She seemed reluctant to face him. Eventually he heard her shooing the poodles into her kitchen before she came to peer out at him. “Been having a good time, have we?” she demanded.

“It’s the season,” he said without an inkling of why he should need to justify himself. “Am I bothering your pets somehow?”

“Maybe they don’t recognize your walk since you did whatever you did to yourself.”

“It happened while I was asleep.” He’d meant to engage her in conversation so that she would feel bound to invite him in—he was hoping that would give the dogs a chance to grow used to him again—but he couldn’t pursue his intentions when she was so openly hostile, apparently because she felt entitled to the only limp in the building. “Happy Christmas to you and yours,” he flung at her, and hobbled back to his floor.

He wrote out his Christmas card list in case he had overlooked anyone, only to discover that he couldn’t recall some of the names to which he had already addressed cards. When he began doodling, slashing at the page so as to sketch stick figures whose agonized contortions felt like a revenge he was taking, he turned the sheet over and tried to read a book. The yapping distracted him, as did the sound of Mrs. Hutton’s limp; he was sure she was exaggerating it to lay claim to the gait or to mock him. He switched on the radio and searched the wavebands, coming to rest at a choir which was wishing the listener a merry Christmas. He turned up the volume to blot out the noise from below, until Mrs. Hutton thumped on her ceiling and the yapping of the poodles began to lurch repetitively at him as they leaped, trying to reach the enemy she was identifying with her stick.

Even his bed was no refuge. He felt as though the window on the far side of the city were an eye spying on him out of the dark, reminding him of all that he was trying not to think of before he risked sleep. During the night he found himself surrounded by capering figures which seemed determined to show him how much life was left in them—how vigorously, if unconventionally, they could dance. He managed to struggle awake at last, and lay afraid to move until the rusty taste like a memory of blood had faded from his mouth.

He couldn’t go on like this. In the morning he was so tired that he felt as if he were washing someone else’s face and hands. He thought he could feel his nerves swarming. He bared his teeth at the yapping of the dogs and tried to recapture a thought he’d glimpsed while lying absolutely still, afraid to move, in the hours before dawn. What had almost occurred to him about Fishwick’s death?

The yapping receded as he limped downhill. On the bus a woman eyed him as if she suspected him of feigning the limp in a vain attempt to persuade her to give up her seat. The city streets seemed full of people who were staring at him, though he failed to catch them in the act. When Jackie and Annette converged on the shop as he arrived, he prayed they wouldn’t mention his limp. They gazed at his face instead, making him feel they were trying to ignore his leg. “We can cope, Mr. Foulsham,” Annette said, “if you want to start your Christmas early.”

“You deserve it,” Jackie added.

What were they trying to do to him? They’d reminded him how often he might be on his own during the next few days, a prospect which filled him with dread. How could he ease his mind in the time left to him? “You’ll have to put up with another day of me,” he told them as he unlocked the door.

Their concern for him made him feel as if his every move were being observed. Even the Christmas Eve crowds failed to occupy his mind, especially once Annette took advantage of a lull in the day’s business to approach him. “We thought we’d give you your present now in case you want to change your mind about going home.”

“That’s thoughtful of you. Thank you both,” he said and retreated into the office, wondering if they were doing their best to get rid of him because something about him was playing on their nerves. He used the phone to order them a bouquet each, a present which he gave them every Christmas but which this year he’d almost forgotten, and then he picked at the parcel until he was able to see what it was.

It was a book of detective stories. He couldn’t imagine what had led them to conclude that it was an appropriate present, but it did seem to have a message for him. He gazed at the exposed spine and realized what any detective would have established days ago. Hearing Fishwick’s name in the night had been the start of his troubles, yet he hadn’t ascertained the time of Fishwick’s death.

He phoned the radio station and was put through to the newsroom. A reporter gave him all the information which the police had released. Foulsham thanked her dully and called the local newspaper, hoping they might contradict her somehow, but of course they confirmed what she’d told him. Fishwick had died just before nine-thirty on the night when his name had wakened Foulsham, and the media hadn’t been informed until almost an hour later.

He sat at his bare desk, his cindery eyes glaring at nothing, then he stumbled out of the cell of an office. The sounds and the heat of the shop seemed to rush at him and recede in waves on which the faces of Annette and Jackie and the customers were floating. He felt isolated, singled out—felt as he had throughout the trial.

Yet if he couldn’t be certain that he had been singled out then, why should he let himself feel that way now without trying to prove himself wrong? “I think I will go early after all,” he told Jackie and Annette.

Some of the shops were already closing. The streets were almost blocked with people who seemed simultaneously distant from him and too close, their insect eyes and neon faces shining. When at last he reached the alley between two office buildings near the courts, he thought he was too late. But though the shop was locked, he was just in time to catch the hairdresser. As she emerged from a back room, adjusting the strap of a shoulder-bag stuffed with presents, he tapped on the glass of the door.

She shook her head and pointed to the sign which hung against the glass. Didn’t she recognize him? His reflection seemed clear enough to him, like a photograph of himself holding the sign at his chest, even if the placard looked more real than he did. “Foulsham,” he shouted, his voice echoing from the close walls. “I was behind you on the jury. Can I have a word?”

“What about?”

He grimaced and mimed glancing both ways along the alley, and she stepped forward, halting as far from the door as the door was tall. “Well?”

“I don’t want to shout.”

She hesitated and then came to the door. He felt unexpectedly powerful, the winner of a game they had been playing. “I remember you now,” she said as she unbolted the door. “You’re the one who claimed to be sharing the thoughts of that monster.”

She stepped back as an icy wind cut through the alley, and he felt as though the weather was on his side, almost an extension of himself. “Well, spit it out,” she said as he closed the door behind him.

She was ranging about the shop, checking that the electric helmets which made him think of some outdated mental treatment were switched off, opening and closing cabinets in which blades glinted, peering beneath the chairs which put him in mind of a death cell. “Can you remember exactly when you heard what happened?” he said.

She picked up a tuft of bluish hair and dropped it in a pedal bin. “What did?”

“He killed himself.”

“Oh, that? I thought you meant something important.” The bin snapped shut like a trap. “I heard about it on the news. I really can’t say when.”

“Heard about it, though, not read it.”

“That’s what I said. Why should it matter to you?”

He couldn’t miss her emphasis on the last word, and he felt that both her contempt and the question had wakened something in him. He’d thought he wanted to reassure himself that he hadn’t been alone in sensing Fishwick’s death, but suddenly he felt altogether more purposeful. “Because it’s part of us,” he said.

“It’s no part of me, I assure you. And I don’t think I was the only member of the jury who thought you were too concerned with that fiend for your own good.”

An unfamiliar expression took hold of Foulsham’s face. “Who else did?”

“If I were you, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is, I’d seek help, and quick. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m not about to let that monster spoil my Christmas.” She pursed her lips and said “I’m off to meet some normal people.”

Either she thought she’d said too much or his expression and his stillness were unnerving her. “Please leave,” she said more shrilly. “Leave now or I’ll call the police.”

She might have been heading for the door so as to open it for him. He only wanted to stay until he’d grasped why he was there. The sight of her striding to the door reminded him that speed was the one advantage she had over him. Pure instinct came to his aid, and all at once he seemed capable of anything. He saw himself opening the nearest cabinet, he felt his finger and thumb slip through the chilly rings of the handles of the scissors, and lunging at her was the completion of these movements. Even then he thought he meant only to drive her away from the door, but he was reckoning without his limp. As he floundered toward her, he lost his balance, and the points of the scissors entered her right leg behind the knee.

She gave an outraged scream and tried to hobble to the door, the scissors wagging in the patch of flesh and blood revealed by the growing hole in the leg of her patterned tights. The next moment she let out a wail so despairing that he almost felt sorry for her, and fell to her knees, well out of reach of the door. As she craned her head over her shoulder to see how badly she was injured, her eyes were the eyes of an animal caught in a trap. She extended one shaky hand to pull out the scissors, but he was too quick for her. “Let me,” he said, taking hold of her thin wrist.

He thought he was going to withdraw the scissors, but as soon as his finger and thumb were through the rings he experienced an overwhelming surge of power which reminded him of how he’d felt as the verdict of the jury was announced. He leaned on the scissors and exerted all the strength he could, and after a while the blades closed with a sound which, though muffled, seemed intensely satisfying.

Either the shock or her struggles and shrieks appeared to have exhausted her. He had time to lower the blinds over the door and windows and to put on one of the plastic aprons which she and her staff must wear. When she saw him returning with the scissors, however, she tried to fight him off while shoving herself with her uninjured leg toward the door. Since he didn’t like her watching him—it was his turn to watch—he stopped her doing so, and screaming. She continued moving for some time after he would have expected her to be incapable of movement, though she obviously didn’t realize that she was retreating from the door. By the time she finally subsided, he had to admit that the game had grown messy and even a little dull.

He washed his hands until they were clean as a baby’s, then he parceled up the apron and the scissors in the wrapping which had contained his present. He let himself out of the shop and limped towards the bus stop, the book under one arm, the tools of his secret under the other. It wasn’t until passersby smiled in response to him that he realised what his expression was, though it didn’t feel like his own smile, any more than he felt personally involved in the incident at the hairdresser’s. Even the memory of all the jurors’ names didn’t feel like his. At least, he thought, he wouldn’t be alone over Christmas, and in future he would try to be less hasty. After all, he and whoever he visited next would have more to discuss.




SHOTS DOWNED, OFFICER FIRED

by Wayne Allen Sallee








Wayne Allen Sallee has been in the previous nine volumes of The Year’s Best Horror Stories and has chosen this year to inform me that he was born on September 9, 1959, not September 19 as consistently reported here. He claims to have been born in Chicago and to live there still. Fans of his work might well wonder in which planetary system this Chicago might be.

Sallee is another of the small press demons, with hundreds of poems published nearly everywhere in addition to his short fiction. Since I discovered him under a flat rock, Sallee has been placing stories in major anthologies, publishing novels (The Holy Terror), thin volumes of verse (Pain Grin)—both of which are in European translation, and will soon have a chapbook from Tal Publications, Untold Stories of the Scarlet Sponge. His second novel, The Girl With the Concrete Hands, is making the rounds, and he is now at work on another, The Skull Carpenters. Not the singing group.







I. Epileptic Lines


I remember my father staring up at the ceiling. A young man back then, for I was in my single-digit years, he was lean and admirable in his policeman’s uniform. The shirt was almost the exact color as the blueberry Ice Pops we’d get at Buhler’s on the way back from the clinic. The ceiling was as white as the buttons on the shirt, buttoned with a strength I still do not have. The image comes back to me often, as sad a memory as words better left unsaid to a past lover, particularly when I see the weariness in his sixty-year-old eyes. Next March, he will be a police officer for thirty years. The longest job I have held, besides my writing, has been five years. The city-issued shirts for the department are still the same shade of young hope and blueberry Ice Pops.

I had assumed that I would one day visit the clinic, that I returned on an October Saturday two years ago was purely spur-of-the-moment. Like when I recalled my father staring at the ceiling simply because I was feeling guilty about having a good day with no stress.

There were black-and-white television shows on back then. We would sit in the waiting room and watch a man chasing another man with one arm. My mother often said that it was the saddest show on television. Outside the glass door, boys and girls were wheeled to the burn ward or the place where, to my young mind, blind people were kept. I had never seen a blind person on Crystal or on Washtenaw, the only world I was aware of outside of my father’s Chevrolet Biscayne and the trips to the Cook County Clinics.

The black-and-white television screen would be reflected in the glass window, the sad man with black hair like my father’s running toward the boys and girls in wheelchairs, intangible, looking back over his shoulder at me.

This is where I spent much of my first thirteen years. Illinois Research is how I recall its name. Division of Services for Crippled Children. Polk and Wood Streets. A building of rust-colored walls and epileptic lines on the floors directing visitors and patients where to go to look for hope. Thirteen years. I shut my eyes to avoid thinking about how many years it must have seemed for my father.

The lines I am referring to were as easy to recall as the lines marking the elevated tracks on a Chicago Transit Authority map. Yellow, red, blue, black. Running along the black margin of floor next to the right wall of each corridor. An ongoing YOU ARE HERE type of thing, I suppose it gave parents a sense of reassurance. Some paths were discernible, after all. I am certain my father had no idea whatsoever how I would turn out, what paths I might be pushed down or wander along of my own volition, and I have never asked him

It was a warm Saturday, comfortable enough that I was willing to take the elevated train to the Loop. This far west, the Douglas line is in Vice Lords territory, and if it were any colder, I would have felt completely disadvantaged in the face of a confrontation. I knew an elderly man, once he was attacked on the way home from the Jewel store on Lawrence and Avers. He swung his bag of potatoes and scared the thugs off. If he had had nothing in his arms, he felt certain that they would have killed him.

So on this particular day in mid-October, I found myself again mesmerized by the elevated tracks passing within a baby’s breath of broken homes and failing businesses. As the train slowed before each station, there was time to make out the faded patterns on hanging laundry on the three-flats back porches. It was faded clothing, still considered usable after years of wear, that made me think of the Cook County Clinics. The place I used to call Illinois Research.

I vacated the train at 18th and Paulina, the Sears Tower visible in the distance like a birthmark on the sky. To my dismay, the building housing the clinics was closed on weekends. I was not content simply seeing the rusty walls and chrome doors. It was like watching a potential subplot dissolve in a film. There’s just not a hell of a lot you can do about it.

A security guard came to the glass door and let me enter. My backpack probably made me look like a grad student. We exchanged talk about the weather and my eyes found the lines on the floor. I had an idea of where I was going. The yellow line shot off to the right at the Diagnostic Center in a way that reminded me of the Voyager craft arcing out of the solar system after passing Saturn.

The red line dead-ended at the Pharmacy and another doorway that led to some mysterious place. It was a toss up between the royal blue and the black. I realized that the lines only seemed to jump around if you stared at them without blinking. When I saw the lines as a boy of seven, I was still having neck spasms and could not hold my head straight up like an alert puppet. Sometimes, my father would carry me as if out of a burning building. Released from detailed pain, I would stare intently at the lines from past my father’s beat-patrolman stride.

I was wearing gym shoes, again, my concerns of a confrontation with gang members, and so I did not even have the clocking of heels to mark my passage through the halls.

The room I wanted was numbered 18. Black numerals on an orange door. Fitting Halloween colors. Wooden frame chairs with blue cushions faced the doorway. Overhead lights were arranged in odd molecular patterns. It was the blue line that led to the doorway numbered 18. My father would sit just inside that doorway as the therapist led me further down another hallway.

I peered through the door’s window as if it were a peephole. A new generation of crippled children’s drawings covered a bulletin board, tacked up with white pins. Current role models from television and music. I recall drawing a scene of Martian tripods standing guard over a city in flames.

I have always been secretive of the things I had to do for those thirteen years. I vaguely refer to picking up maroon colored pills that were flat on one side and putting them into a tiny-necked bottle. Doing “airplanes,” that is, balancing my arms and legs in the air while my torso lay on the floor mat. Climbing steps. Descending the steps I had climbed.

I thought again of my father staring at the ceiling. He would invariable be doing this when the therapist brought me back out, and we would surprise him because I was never as loud as some of the other children. My father stared at the ceiling because he was praying. My father stared at the ceiling because he did not care to watch the show about the fugitive pursuing a one-armed man.

A one-armed man seen fleeing the scene of the crime. My father had his pursuits. I had the scene of the crime in front of me. The crime was never knowing what to say.

I did not look at my watch. I saw track lighting and knew that no one could stare at the ceiling for long anymore.

I had a full day ahead of me and went back to the remaining black line, assuming it would take me to a place that I could actually exit from.




II. Shots Downed, Officer Fired


The call came in the middle of his second hour of delirium, on his first night of furlough.

Cruising down the Federal Street corridor in complete silence; no partner, no drug-sniffing canines, no cop show theme song with a frenetic beat.

The squad ran beautifully, a new ’92 Chevy Caprice. Not one gang banger, not a single hustling meth jimmie to eyeball him. When the Lake-Dan Ryan elevated coasted two blocks down and three stories into the night sky, it was like a new-fangled fancy painting, squares of hospital glare; white against the lakefront’s summer turquoise.

Not one soul on board the four cars of the “B” train. Again, he was alone.

The city: his.

He pulled the squad over. Climbed out, stretched in the night air. He heard distant shots fired, felt them like pulses in his forehead when the nights were more humid, also feeling as if the gunfire did not concern him. Moved away from the car in a sliding motion.

Embarrassed; his starched shirttail flapping in the wind like ghetto laundry, his bony knees pale in the summer moonlight. The wind stank of whiskey. His police-issued black socks were soaked when he walked through a puddle near the corner of Thirty-Ninth.

His size-ten feet left wet, sloppy prints in the shag carpeting.

Fumbled with the buttons, trying to put the shirttails back into his blue and white striped jockey shorts. Flaccid head of his dick bent and caught to the right side of the flap. He would not be reprimanded for this apparent lapse in the dress code.

This was Chicago, and he was a twenty-seven-year veteran. When they know you’ve seen enough—the ’72 Midway crash, the ’68 Democratic Convention, the body bags in the crawlspace on Summerdale—then the others cover for you. Police take care of their own, he thought. Weaving proudly. Thinking of a face melted into the springs of the airline seat in front of him, the plane missing the airport by fourteen city blocks. Back then, he drank Drewrey’s.

Again, shots. He did not hear them as they were being fired, but he heard the breaking of glass. Sounding like a bulb that had been dropped, rather than exploded.

The street slid open next to him. His hand gripped the nozzle in his holster. The gun weighed more than he had thought and he could not pull it free.

The streetlights flickered. Briefly, he saw his own reflection. Then he was face-to-face with his son. He must have come down here to buy his own drugs. Not enough to tough it out like The Old Man. Always talking like he had a candy asshole.

“Dad, c’mon.” Maybe a bit of a slur in the son’s voice, as well. “Let’s lay back down, okay?” What the hell was he talking about? He was out here in the streets every damn night while his son stayed home and wrote stories and slept until noon.

“C’mon, Dad. You can vacuum in the morning.” The closed door slid wider and he saw the rest of the bedroom. He tried to balance himself, standing on a pile of his wife’s old shoes and forgotten clothing, garments that had fallen from the hangers.

“Let go of the vacuum.”

Stern voice with The Old Man. Takes enough shit from Division. Don’t need it from the candy-ass.

He put up resistance, the way the academy taught him a stripped-away lifetime ago. The department drove Mercurys back then, it had been three years before he had to answer a call for Shots fired, officer down, all units in the vicinity respond. Knocked his son back, the candy-ass falling flat on his bony butt in the middle of the beige street.

“Damn you,” his only son said. “Back into bed, before Mom gets home. You stink worse than those damn black socks.” The younger man stood up and brushed dog hairs from his jeans.

He still had the keys to the front door in one hand, along with his balled-up tie. “I knew you were drunk when I saw you with your socks on. Every fucking time, man. Socks, shorts, and shirt.”

The man who was a twenty-seven-year beat copper dropped the gun to the ground. The hose sucked up part of his lime-green sport jacket, the one he wore for St. Patrick’s Day parties.

“Fuck you swear me.” He thumped his chest like a cave man.

“Snap out of it,” his son said, pulling off dog hairs. “Shit, I don’t want to start counting your phenobarbs every night again.”

Sounding like his mother, the candy-ass. He tried to say, Go take one of your mother’s Valiums, that’s okay, but I can’t have one lousy beer. What came out of his mouth was something like a voice box dropped into a well of baby shit.

“Gwa ma can lib.”

Wobbled, weaved, kept himself in control.

It was okay for his son to take drugs because it hurt his arms and his head to write the stories, but it was wrong for him to drink in order to face his own job. Working the projects since ’86, thirty murders a month in his district alone. His wife hiding all the beer in the cabinet with the window cleaner, he had to go out and drink quickie shots that no one could enjoy when he went to buy his lottery tickets.

Let’s see Mr. Candy-ass live through a stroke.

“Dad. C’mon.” Minimalist as possible.

He pushed his son down again, the glare from the overhead light hurting his head.

He swatted the maggot-shaped bulb away.

Stumbled from the closet, tripped over his son and back to the real oblivion. No more Federal Street, no dreams or nightmares or sweaty pillows.

Nothing.

He had started to snap out of it, the scene swimming into focus, when the paramedics were standing over him in the dining room. Overhead candelabra-style lights on at three in the morning. Like a sunburst.

“Tom. Tom.” They said it over and over, litanizing his name. By the time they had bundled him against the late October cold and bumped the stretcher down the front steps, one solitary neighbor watching because it was something to see, the policeman were aware.

His eyes were scared and knowing.




Later that night, the policeman’s son sat in the waiting room of Mercy Hospital. His wadded-up tie was still in his possession, a lucky charm of sorts, stuffed into a pocket. Which one, exactly, he wasn’t even sure.

He watched “Zombies on Broadway” on the overhead Zenith television. WLS; Channel Seven’s Insomniac Theater. Couple of second string Abbot and Costello types bringing back one of Boris Karloff’s zuvembis to do a lounge act in Sheldon Leonard’s nightclub.

He was there alone, would be alone until the doctors came in with news good or bad. He had lied to his dad about mother coming home; she had left her husband, as promised, after his second alcoholic relapse in 1988. It had been springtime then. His mother lived on the northside now.

A full-time writer, the cop’s son had traveled around until his money ran low; his dad was more than willing to let him come back home. It was good to have somebody to clean up and cook.

The movie would play for about eight minutes, cut away to a trailer card of spotlights over a pale blue Chicago skyline. Then he would endure three minutes of ads for G-rated phone sex—“Hi! I’m bored! Call me now at 1-900-Hot-Love”—and bankruptcy lawyers.

Nobody ever seemed to proofread the trailers: once, at a friend’s place up north, he was watching “The Saint in New York.” The trailer card had eliminated the first word, making the movie sound like bastard Injun talk. Saint in New York. Ugh! He had pulled out his notepad then, adding apostrophes, and writing S’AINT IN NEW YORK, S’IN CHICAGO. Never wrote a story with that title yet, but maybe one day.

The movie came back on, always with the volume lower than that of the commercials. A family of blacks entered the room, an entire entourage. Sons, daughters, aunts. From what he could pick up, they were waiting to hear if their male relative had survived three bullets in a gang drive-by shooting.

Or ten bullets as an innocent bystander, the cops shooting him as he lay there on the corner of 42nd and Drexel, depending on one family member’s point of view.

The son waited for the neurologist to come tell him whatever he had to tell about his father.




He waited again, six months; another lapse of judgment, this one compounded by a pin stroke and dementia. Subtle signs of Parkinson’s Disease in a man not even sixty.

He didn’t make his pension because of the new mayoral administration’s campaign promises.




The writer and his ex-policeman father in Midland Nursing Home, Christmas Eve 1991. A woman in the room telling him, telling the writer, that she recognized his uniform. Taken aback momentarily, then realizing he was wearing a Bears jacket. Orange and blue. His father’s mouth gaped like a fish.

Wanting water.

The woman then told him that she was thirty-nine and her mother was forty-one. Another woman in the room kept up a chant in Polish, most likely swear words.

The writer’s father wore a Posey gait belt now, so that the attendants could lift the bloated body from wheelchair to bed.

He let his father look out the window, at suburban Fallon Ridge. An ozone horizon lit by used car lots and bars with Old Style signs swinging in the winter wind above their doorways, advertising carry-outs in bottles and cans.

His father saw himself reflected in the window.

Reflected in a bar window. Green and red Christmas lights, deck the halls. Division had transferred him to an easier district; the 8th, at 63rd and St. Louis. He was off-duty, at the bar down by the GTW tracks.

And his candy-ass son was tending bar.

“Here, pop. It’s on the house.” The writer, lighthearted. The woman whose mother was two years older than her again commented that she recognized the writer’s uniform. The other woman said dupa yash nothing head and blew an angry spit bubble.

The water cups at the nursing home were a cross between jigger glasses and urine specimen cups; ridged plastic and opaque. The writer steadied his father’s hand by wrapping the Posey belt around his wrist, like a slice of gauze. By pulling on the belt, his father’s hand was raised to his mouth.

“Okay, pop. Good job.”

His father thinking on how he had always expected his son to end up doing something like this, working at a gas station or tending bar like he was now.

Working at places where he could tell his stories.

Stories that only drunk people would believe to be true.




DAVID

by Sean Doolittle







I get the strangest things sent along with submissions and contracts, T.E.D. Klein sent me a photo of Bill Clinton and Al Gore in swimsuits. Sean Doolittle sent me a photo of a hand with “a really cool blister.” If I ever decide to resume my practice of psychiatry, I’ll know where to find patients.

Doolittle is another of the younger group of authors who are beginning to find their voice; not too long ago, their voices were beginning to crack. Speaking for himself, Doolittle says: “I’ll be 23 on July 20. Born in Lincoln, 1971. I’ve sold fiction to anthologies Northern Frights 2, Young Blood, magazines including Cavalier, Deathrealm (obviously), Palace Corbie, Cyber-Psycho’s AOD, and a couple handfuls of other small press publications. I co-edited the short-lived magazine Vicious Circle, and am currently in the Master’s Degree program in creative writing at the University of Nebraska at Lincoln.” Part of the vicious circle, Sallee’s story just before this is reprinted from Vicious Circle.





David first saw him on the bus. Not the six-oh-five crosstown, that was just it. He’d gone straight to Nabob’s after work and had already come up with a table (fireside, of course, he would finally get the fireplace tonight of all nights) when Christina had called the restaurant, apologized a blue streak and scampered off to OR to clean up after the appendix-bomb that had gone off in some poor kid’s stomach twenty minutes earlier. Not having the spirit to engage in any real meaningful battle over a cab, David hopped aboard the seven-twenty, which was loading on the corner just as he left the restaurant.

The guy was one seat up and across the aisle. He glanced back once early on, then again, a light in his smoky gray eyes that David recognized as a particular kind of uncertainty. I know you, I think. Do I know you? A youngish guy, maybe a little younger than David himself. Late twenties. Dark hair and soft features, a day’s worth of stubble, and besides looking only vaguely like the guy David had seen on a Grape Nuts commercial, completely unfamiliar. When he looked back the third time, David decided to give him the nod—that polite and general one that covers those situations where eye contact has been made with a stranger and something seems like it should be done. Then he unfolded the evening edition he’d grabbed from the machine outside Nabob’s and turned to the comics.

The guy looked back again right around thirty-fourth and Warburton, started to stare.

By the mid-fifties, it was time for another decision. Look up? He toyed briefly with the idea of screaming “What?” into the guy’s face, decided ultimately to give social cues another chance and stay with the comics. Try to look really engrossed. See, man? I’m reading. I’m reading so hard that I don’t even notice you.

They pulled up to the stop, a six-block stroll from his apartment building, ten minutes later. The guy watched him all the way off the bus.




Ike’s was on the corner, and after getting off the bus David looked at his watch, saw that it wasn’t even eight, and decided to duck in for a beer. It turned out to be Karaoke Nite inside, as luck would have it. He downed a Heineken and made it out just as a middle-aged couple in matching sweaters began bellering “Unchained Melody,” staring drunkenly into each others’ eyes and holding the mike between them.

He was pressing the button at the crosswalk when a voice just behind him said, “Hi.” David turned and saw the Grape Nuts guy from the bus looking at him intently.

“Hi,” he said, and realized he was pushing the button repeatedly. He made himself stop.

The guy continued to watch him, saying nothing. David glanced at him again. He was wearing a sweater, fraying but bulky. Jeans. Sneakers. The night was cool enough that David could see vague tendrils of breath wisping from the corner of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Do I know you?”

The guy kept looking at him, expression pleasant, deep gray eyes revealing nothing. Just interest. David looked back and then, with a mental slap to the forehead, thought, Christ. I’m being picked up, here. He almost smiled.

“I saw you on the bus.” The guy gave a small smile, as if in explanation.

David just nodded, slowly. The way you nod to someone telling you about the poltergeist in their laundry room. “I… yeah. I noticed that.”

The guy nodded back and they just stood there, nodding at each other, two people who don’t share the same language giving each other directions.

The light was what saved the moment. It turned, and David gave a final nod and started across the street. The guy came right along with him. When they hit the other curb and David turned right, heading up the walk in the direction of his apartment, the guy didn’t miss a stride.

David gave a sigh of exasperation and stopped dead in his tracks. “Look, can I help you with something?”

At last, the gray eyes filled with warmth. The guy took a step closer. “Kill me.”

David felt his eyes fly open like window shades and he almost tripped backing up. “What?”

The guy repeated what David had thought he’d heard. Soft and definite. “Kill me.”

David began walking away very quickly. He kept one eye over his shoulder as he did. The guy jumped to catch up.

“Get away from me, man.”

“You can do it.”

David walked on, increasing his pace. The guy, whose stride was shorter, had to work at it a little. But he kept up. They covered the next block, and David stopped again. He faced the guy and tried to make his voice calm and friendly.

“Look. I’m sure you are a very nice person, but I’m seriously warning you, here. Get. The hell. Away from me.”

The guy just blinked and kept staring with that maddeningly passive gaze. Well, I’d like to, really. But I can’t do that. How come? Because I’m a raving fucking psychotic, see?

David shook his head and started on again, and when the guy stuck with him for another block he said, “Don’t make me break your goddamn nose, okay? Just leave.”

The guy put a gentle hand on his shoulder. David shrugged it off like it was something with maggots.

“Don’t break my nose. Break my spine. Kill me. You can.” He locked his gaze on hard, and the next time he said it he was whispering. “Kill me.”

David heard sharp footsteps up the block, their echo clock-clocking in and out of the alleyway between Fritz’s and The Golden Carrot. Beat cop.

Thank you, God.

“Officer,” he shouted. “This man is bothering me.”

The cop turned, cocked his head, and began walking in their direction. David felt himself cringe.

Beautiful. How very damsel-in-distress of you, Dave.

The cop strolled up, eyebrow suspiciously arched. At him. That was when David noticed the guy had gone.

Again. Beautiful.

“What’s that?” The cop looked to his right, then his left, all around them. A heavyhanded little piece of sarcasm, David thought, if ever there was one.

“Nothing. Never mind. Thanks,” he said, and walked on quickly, feeling the cop watch him all the way to the next block before the hollow clock-clock started up again.

David caught himself looking back every second or two, realized he was watching his back for the Grape Nuts guy.

I’m sure somebody’ll kill you, sport, he thought, then prayed as he reached the front steps of his building at last that there would be aspirin. Weirdness gave him a headache.




There were no aspirins, as if he couldn’t have guessed that, but there was a single, lonely Heineken in the fridge, which he uncapped and took with him to the shower. He cranked the thing onto Nearly Unbearable, closed the door and let the place fill with steam, stood under the spray, setting the head on massage and letting it bombard his forehead, the back of his neck. He stayed until the water began cooling in incremental shades.

Worked, by God. And the beer hit the spot well enough that he decided to throw on jeans and a sweatshirt, hop down the block to Sammy’s for another six. Saturday tomorrow, and if he was forced to spend Friday night Christinaless, might as well assemble himself in front of the tube and buzz the evening happily away. He made it back in roughly eight minutes, had popcorn ready in ten, and plopped into the sofa group, with blankets and pillows, in twenty minutes flat.

He had three dead soldiers and nothing but unpopped kernels in the bowl when he heard a key snick into the doorknob. Letterman was just getting underway.

In a few moments, Christina dragged herself through the door and leaned back heavily against it. Her sandy hair was hanging into her eyes, and it looked like she could pack for a weekend in the bags under her eyes.

“You look like hell,” he said.

She smirked at him. “Your hair is thinning.”

“Poor baby.” He patted the cushion next to him, held open the blankets. She batted her eyes in something like relief and left her coat and purse in a pile by the door. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and let her snuggle in. He smelled her hair, kissed the back of her head. “How’s the kid.”

She yawned. “Still groggy, lucky for him. He’s gonna hurt.”

“How’re you?”

She craned her head around and kissed him. “Exhausted. Sorry about dinner.”

“No sweat whatever. Beer?”

She already had one open.

He squeezed her. “I’m glad you came, babe.”

Christina wiggled around to face him, wickedness dancing in her eyes. “I haven’t yet,” she said, kissing him again, “but I thought we could work on it.”

David bugged his eyes at her in mock amazement. “I,” he said, “am shocked at you. You kissed your mother with that mouth?”

And that was when he heard the bedroom door open and a small, sleep-drugged voice say, “David? Who are you talking to, hon?”

David almost launched Christina into the coffee table as he scrambled out of the pit and wheeled around, hitting their freshly popped beers and vaguely hearing them empty into the carpet in glugs. Then he heard Christina gasp.

Grape Nuts was ambling into the living room, hair mussed, eyes drowsy, scratching the side of his jaw and yawning. He was wearing David’s robe.

“I’m Roy,” he said, blinking as if to clear the sleep from his eyes and coming around the couch toward Christina. “I don’t think we’ve met. David?”

Christina’s lower jaw could not have drooped farther without dropping off into the carpet with a dull sort of thud.

What the fuck?

“How did you get in?” he roared. It was the first thing out of his mouth once he remembered how to make words.

The guy winked at him slyly as he sauntered over, patted him on the crotch before David knew what was happening. “I almost asked you the same question earlier, big guy.” He looked back at Christina playfully.

She was already heading for the door.

“Jesus, Christina, wait!”

She grabbed her things and opened the door.

“Christina, this isn’t…”

“Look, David…” she started, hands up, eyes wide and filled with something like horror, something like disgust. Then she was out. The door slammed.

David whirled on the guy, whose face had become passive once again.

“Kill me.”

David went for the phone and dialed the police. By the time he’d botched it twice and then managed the first three numbers without missing, Grape Nuts was coming out of the bedroom once more, dressed. He gave David a last, long look and then left, closing the door softly behind him.

David hung up the phone.




He spent the next half hour pacing laps around the living room. At one point he picked up one of the empty Heineken bottles and hurled it through the glass top of the coffee table. The sudden realization that he’d just turned a piece of his furniture into about a billion tiny shards of glass helped him get things together.

He picked up the phone again and called the police. Then he called Christina. The phone rang seventeen times before he heard the other end pick up and drop again.

It was almost one-thirty by the time the guys from the police department knocked on his door. He let them in—Officers Swanson and Bentley, hello, I’m David Conners—and he spent the next fifteen minutes recounting everything from the bus ride on. They did their cop thing and left, can’t really spare a surveillance unit at this stage but call us immediately if anything else transpires.

David knew that any attempts at sleep tonight would be a washout. So he made coffee, returned to the sofa pit, and waited for dawn.

Who in God’s earth was this guy?

He’s Roy. He wants you to kill him. Haven’t we been listening?

Why him, then? How about that. Why, out of all the poor dopes in this lunatic city, did this particular lunatic decide to single out him to make miserable?

David decided, as he sat in the stark glow of the television, sipping his coffee and watching the snow, that next time he saw the guy he’d ask.




When daylight at last began to seep carefully into the city, David showered again. He put away two last cups of French Roast, called for a cab, and was at Christina’s by eight.

She was almost packed. Going to her sister’s.

He nearly had to staple her down, but in the end, which was almost two hours later, he’d managed to convince her—at least enough to nix the trip to sister Susan’s—that no, he was not leading a double life, was not having an affair with a psychotic man named Roy, and you can goddamn well bet I called the police. Looked like an episode of Dragnet in my apartment until two-thirty this morning.

“My God, David,” she said, after he threw up his hands and collapsed, thoroughly wrung, into the loveseat. A silent minute passed, and when he lifted the heels of his hands away from his eyeballs Christina was sitting down beside him. She put a hand on his cheek. “I am so sorry.”

He hugged her.

“Are you okay? Has he… done anything?”

“I’m pissed. He hasn’t done anything but break into my home and wear my clothes and send you the other direction at warp factor eight.”

They broke the clinch, and when she looked up her eyes were wet. “I’m so sorry, David,” she said again, and then she shook her head like she couldn’t figure out what kind of ungodly sprite had gotten into it. “Not trusting you. I’m pathetic. Just pathetic.”

He told her, after they sat for a few moments, that he didn’t cook breakfast for pathetic people, and after they’d eaten she took him shopping.

All, it seemed, was right with the world once more.

They decided he would stay the rest of the weekend at her place. When they returned that evening, loaded with bags and exhausted and happy, she said that this time she would cook, shooed him out, and set about it while he ran back to the apartment for clothes, toothbrush, all the rest. A Frito Lay truck had somehow managed to jackknife in the middle of the intersection at Forty-fifth and Boswell. They got to his building in just under an hour. David would remember this, later.

When he opened his door and flipped on the lights, Roy was on the couch, waiting.

It was strange. David didn’t feel surprised.

He looked him dead on. The guy’s face was expressionless, eyes intent. “What do you want from me?” he said. He slipped his hands into his pockets and leaned against the door, as if to say I’m not budging until you come clean, mister. It struck him how ridiculous it really was. It was his apartment, for God’s sake. He decided to hell with it and arched his eyebrows. “Huh? What is it that you want.”

Roy folded his arms. “I’ve told you, David. I want you to kill me.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Roy.”

David just nodded and kicked off the door. “Yeah. Well, Roy, I’m not going to kill you, ’kay? If you want to die, there are plenty of other ways besides walking up to a stranger and saying ‘kill me.’ Hell, buy a gun. Jump off a building. Jump off a building in front of a bus, for all I care. Just get out of here and don’t come back.” He smiled at Roy sweetly. Whaddaya say, hmm?

Roy did not flinch. He didn’t smile or tic or anything. He just looked at him. “I’m asking you, David. You can do it, no matter what you think. Kill me.”

What was this? Some deranged philosophy major going around to people? Recognize the Dark Side, stare the Beast in the eye and make friends with it and all that happy horseshit?

“Get out.”

“If you want me gone, take the proper steps, David. I’ve told you. You know how to get rid of me.”

“I,” David said, “am not. For the last time. Going to kill you.” He went for the phone again. At least there was one thing besides death that made the guy leave.

“You will,” the guy said, just as the door closed. He tossed something onto the carpet before it did, which made a muffled chink as it landed.

David knew what it was before he even got there. He recognized the miniature tennis shoe.

Christina’s keyring. He felt his head go numb as he picked it up, saw the sole of the little sneaker smeared red, pieces of sandy hair stuck in it, the message suckerpunching him and leaving him trying to breath.

Stepped on her, bro. Kill me.

David remembered calling the police, vaguely remembered mentioning Swanson and Bentley, and he must’ve called a cab because one came to pick him up.

That was about all from the next several hours, except for the image of flashing red and running people, that the cops had gotten there before his cab and wouldn’t let him see.




David flew to his brother’s in Akron the next afternoon. The cops had found the cabbie in whose company he’d been when it all went down. There were also strands of hair in his robe and evidence that the lock to his door had been picked, verifying his claim of an intruder. The strands of hair were important in that they a) weren’t his and b) matched the ones beneath Christina’s fingernails.

After Christina, they took him seriously enough to send him to the airport in a squad car.

The cop waited with him until he boarded.

David threw a last look back as he ducked into the boarding tube. Back, far back beyond the cop and the people waiting in the gate lobby, he could see Roy, leaning up against the Arrivals/Departures kiosk with his hands in his pockets, watching him. His stubble was slightly darker now. He was wearing a long coat.

Then the line swept David along like a leaf in a stream.




It would be all over the national news broadcasts for most of the next week, riding out its life on the local stations for longer than that.

But then, when a guy pulls a Mini-14 and three loaded clips out of his coat in the middle of a busy airport, you’re gonna have news.

In Akron, David caught it all. CBS to CNN to People to Maury Povich.

Roy burned out two and almost all of the third of his 30 round clips before he fled the airport and screamed off toward the city in a late-model Ford Taurus, hitting downtown just as the sirens kicked in, weaving in and out of traffic, careening through the city with the cops in pursuit. He hit the pedestrians too slow to move, actually made a point of swerving to do the job on at least two occasions (said an unidentified bystander one night on Hard Copy). Window open, he plugged as many at random with an unlicensed Beretta 9mm before the 15 round clip gave out. He’d been too busy driving, it seemed, to pop in another.

They brought him down at Sixty-fifth and Gable. Nobody got more specific than that in terms of location, but David recognized his own address when he saw it.

The trail of bodies led almost to the front steps of his building.

David overheard, one evening, very late, his brother and his wife speaking in the den, tones hushed, voices strained. About calling somebody, Christ, Caroline, I don’t know but I’m worried about him.

When the thing became redundant at last, when they stopped coming up with new stuff (it took a bit, the late-night could milk a thing like this for weeks), David catalogued all the VHS tapes (there were seven) and watched them again.




PORTRAIT OF A PULP WRITER

by F. A. McMahan







Frances A. McMahan prefers to write under the byline, F.A. McMahan. Much to her chagrin, she was variously listed under both bylines with her story in The Ultimate Zombie. We’ll try to get it right this time. Don’t fret, McMahan: A scrambled running folio in the British Edition of Jack the Ripper ran my name as Karl Edward Angels. Never been called that before.

Having established that she is indeed F.A. McMahan, when pressed for further details she writes: “I was born July 24, 1962, in Greenville, South Carolina. I live in Greenville now (with my husband, no children) but spent five years in Denver, Colorado, and intend to eventually return to Denver to stay. My fiction has appeared in several magazines since 1991 including Figment, Prisoners of the Night, Strange Days, Midnight Zoo, and the anthologies Chilled to the Bone and The Ultimate Zombie. I have a few novels (two horror, two fantasy, and one science fiction) out to publishing houses and am presently at work on a mainstream novel called The Movement of Hands.”





Roger Diggs sighed. He had been sitting in front of his TV that doubled as a computer monitor for three hours. Nothing came to him. He had received not one inspiration in the past month. They called it writer’s block. Diggs called it procrastination and laziness, but identifying the problem was little help in solving it.

He stared at the keyboard and felt a faint longing for his old typewriter. He had gotten the computer, disk drive, and printer used and fairly cheap from a friend. The friend had moved up to an IBM clone and offered his old Commodore system to Diggs. It had turned out to be cheaper than a good electric typewriter, so Diggs had bought it.

But he had to use his TV as a monitor, and that only served to enhance his slothfulness. Whenever he was at a loss for an idea, he would switch over to TV mode and flip through the channels.

Later he would realize that he had wasted an hour wondering whether or not Rex would discover that Julie had killed Ted with the carving knife that she had received as a present from her mother who was having an affair with Ted’s twin brother, Bobby. Or if the soaps were boring that day, he would count to twenty in Spanish with an orange puppet whose controlling strings were clearly visible. Or maybe try to come closest to the actual retail value without going over.

“The milky gray slime oozed through the earthquake fissure and bubbled deliriously, displaying a terrifying indication of sentience.”

Diggs stared at the line of white words. They contrasted nicely with the blue background color.

“As it flowed toward a nearby cactus, the pulpy mass glistened in the sunlight and left behind an unctuous spoor. A sunning iguana turned its brown head, watching idly, oblivious to the possible danger, and was snatched by a heretofore unseen tentacle and stuffed into the jelly-thing’s indistinguishable mouth.”

Diggs leaned his elbow on the computer, resting his chin on his hand. He counted the words, a habit he had when uninspired. His finger made little crackling noises when it touched the TV screen.

Seventy-five words. He did a bit of mental figuring. Forty times that would be three thousand words. Not too bad. The only problem was that the story so far was pretty much trash.

He saved his idea to disk just in case he decided later that it was good, then pressed control-delete on the keyboard.

“Are you sure? Y/N,” flashed on the screen.

He typed “Y” and his words vanished.

Diggs stared at the empty blue screen. He would work again tomorrow. Then he turned off the computer and checked his watch to see if it was too late to catch Julie’s trial on channel seven.




The phone rang. Only twice but enough to wake Diggs up.

The clock radio’s green display glared that it was only seven-fifteen. Unfortunately, once awake, Diggs found it impossible to go back to sleep. So he climbed out of his nice, warm bed and took a shower that turned cold halfway through. This was definitely not going to be a Saturday to remember.

He made the coffee too strong. The milk had soured. And the thin sliced white sandwich bread was moldy. He also had a headache.

The pupilless gray eye of the TV set stared from across the room, beckoning him to another session of aimless key punching.

He flipped on the system. “ENTER TEXT,” materialized in crisp, white letters.

Biting his left thumbnail, Diggs sat for a good while wondering why the most frequently used letters were scattered about the keyboard and not on home row. There was a small piece of fuzz between “O” and “P,” and he picked it out, blew it from his fingertips, and watched it drift to the floor.

“Serth circled the peak of the hill twice, then glided to a landing among the huts of the tribe. His majestic, white wings folded snugly against his back as he strode toward the chief who looked greatly displeased.”

Diggs had noticed an interesting combination of letters on the keyboard. And “S-E-R-T-H” became a winged man.

“Ignoring his leader, Serth walked past him into a nearby hut and began the ritual that would bring rain to the tribe’s thirsty crops. He meticulously ground the herbs he had gathered, making a pulp that he spread on his face and arms. Then he began the ceremonial chant. Sacred syllables flowed from his lips, words that only he could understand. His hands made circular, twisting motions. Sweat dripped into his open, staring eyes and burned with salty fire. Serth was growing old. The ancient rituals were becoming increasingly difficult for him to perform. It was time he chose a successor.”

Diggs read over his creation. He liked it. It needed work, but he liked it all the same. Counting words again, he found one hundred and fifty. Better than yesterday. Double the amount, in fact, in the same amount of time.

Leaning back in his chair, he looked into the kitchen. It was nine o’clock, and he was getting sleepy. Saving the fledgling paragraphs onto disk, he got up and wandered into the bedroom. He could take a quick nap and finish the story in the afternoon.

Diggs drifted off to slumberland with the happy thought that he was finally pushing that pesky writer’s block out of the way.




He woke with a start.

A racket was coming from the living room.

Grabbing a granite bookend off the shelf, he crept around the corner, then stopped dead in his tracks.

His disk drive hummed softly. Out of the computer, from every crevice and port, came a multitude of creatures.

Diggs recognized all of them. The gray slime he had created yesterday. An old man, three boys, and an undead rat from last Tuesday. Winged Serth from this morning. Fluid mercury aliens. A miner from an unnamed planet. A three-headed, talking toad… he had been out of it that day. Various mutant beings, some fragmentary and incomplete, all from the past month of unfinished stories.

“What a terrific dream,” Diggs muttered.

This was going to make a great story when he woke up.

He was delighted as the rabble slowly began to push forward.

The horde of creatures forced him against the dining room wall.

Then they lashed out with talons, teeth, clubs, pickaxes, and all manner of nasty-looking weapons.

The pain was proof that Diggs was not dreaming. But by then it was too late for him to escape.

His only scream was muffled and gurgling as a milky gray tentacle reached out to crash his larynx.




Having left no remains of He Who Had Summoned Them, the creatures returned to the computer and, through it, to the swirling macrocosm of all that exists: matter, energy, thought. None of which is ever created or destroyed, but merely transmuted into another form.

They returned to rest and wait. Wait for another who would send out a call and grant them life through words. Or be consumed by them.




FISH HARBOR

by Paul Pinn







Paul Pinn is another newcomer to The Year’s Best Horror Stories. When asked to give some account of himself, Pinn responded: “Born London 1955 under a disturbing mass of conjunctions, oppositions, and things. Been writing since knee-high to a grasshopper, but only with deadly serious intent since 1989. From then until now over 60 short story acceptances (about a third so far published) by UK mags such as Dementia 13, Strange Attractor, Orion, Works, Peeping Tom, Fear, etc., plus mags in Canada and Finland. Recently finished two collaborations with D.F. Lewis, and finished (solo) a cross-genre psychological novel which is ‘doing the rounds.’ Currently working on another about a schizophrenic girl on the run through Asia. Living with long-term soulmate Elaine, no kids, plenty of booze. After 20 years recently upgraded intelligence (ho ho) with exam passes in Child Development Psychology and Abnormal Psychology. Working as an administrator in London, but would much rather be writing and once again traveling aimlessly overseas (with Elaine). In the meantime keep sharp listening to Ministry and Mindfunk, Black Sabbath and Motorhead, the Outlaws (Green Grass High Tides—know?) and Freebird by you-know-who.”

Nice to find a horror writer with such quiet tastes.





“You sleep to escape.”

I pulled the sheet up to my navel and would have fallen asleep immediately had Marjory not chosen that precise moment to exercise her penchant for ill-timing.

“You were bored of my company so you fell asleep on the sofa,” she said as she sat up and glared spitefully at me. “Or perhaps it was just a way of avoiding a night out with me.”

With her beaklike nose and the icy myopic stare she favored at moments like this, I sometimes thought my wife would have made a good hanging judge. What had upset her, if indeed she was upset and not just nit-picking, was that I had fallen asleep for three hours after dinner.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” I asked as I adjusted my pillow.

“I did.”

And she certainly had, at an hour too late to seek entertainment, at least for people like us, too old for trendy discos and noisy bars full of brash youngsters. I wished she had left me sleeping on the sofa; it had been comfortable and dream-free. Now I was beginning to lose my sleepiness.

“I don’t understand why you’re so tired,” Marjory complained. “You haven’t done anything today except allow us to get dragged off by those awful timeshare touts.”

They hadn’t been so awful and my resultant chat with the main representative had been interesting. Not that I would seriously consider investing in Lanzarote. The volcanic island reminded me too much of Marjory, except her grumbling was audible.

“We got a bottle of gin out of it,” I countered.

She grunted and craned her neck at me, her eyes as cold and blue as the early morning water in our apartment complex swimming pool.

“If I hadn’t been there, you would have signed on the dotted line.”

The rep. had never come that close to sealing the deal. Marjory’s haughty silent stare had seen to that. Not that I had needed her support. Still, she had already made good use of the gin, and now she would sleep soundly, filling the still warm air with a flurry of snoring while I tossed and turned, too much awake to follow.

“Turn your light out,” she ordered. “It’s in my eyes.” Then, as I reached for the switch: “But first, give me a good night kiss.”

Her tone was a shade sweeter, the difference between a lump of sugar and a lump with an extra grain. The request took me by surprise, then I remembered the gin.

I leaned over and gave her a brief kiss; brief because she always seemed to move away before I felt I had finished it. Had we been teenagers, it might have been interpreted as a tease. In the twilight of middle-age it was a remnant of faded affections, the closest we ever came to physical intimacy.

“Good night,” she said as I filled the room with darkness.

I didn’t bother to reply.

The next hour passed slowly as sleep kept its distance. I ended up thinking of our activities since arriving in Lanzarote four days earlier. The memories aggravated me.




Lanzarote, or Puerto del Carmen to be more precise, had been Marjory’s idea. Our three children had more adventurous things planned for the Christmas break than staying with us in cold wet Orpington. As for myself, I did a lot of foreign travel in my job as an Export Manager, so staying at home and pottering about would have been, in its own quiet way, most appealing.

However, Marjory had decided that she couldn’t be bothered cooking for just the two of us (but would have been only too happy to have done so for the whole family) and that a holiday “away from it all” was just what she needed. After a brief perusal of a few brochures, and without consulting me, she made her choice: one of the Canary Islands. It only remained for me to go and book it and pay for it.

Due to work, it was a few days before I got round to it; during that time I tried to coax her into trying somewhere really different, like the Dominican Republic—“Too far away, wherever it is”—or Gambia—“Africa! You must be joking!”—or Thailand—“You know I hate Indian food.” And so, running late with only a week to Christmas, I had wandered into the local travel agent, seen a “cheapie” advertised for half the price of the one Marjory had picked, and had booked it there and then: same dates, same island, same resort, apartment unknown but promised to be up to the company’s usual high standard.

“The money I’ve saved will enable us to spend even more when we’re there,” I said triumphantly on my return.

Marjory was unimpressed. “I’m surprised you haven’t joined the local synagogue,” she replied sourly.

Our apartment in the Villas Verdes was more than adequate. It was modern, bright and comfortably furnished in that typically simple aesthetic style the Spanish are so good at, a style that makes the British seem a cluttered lot. It had a south-facing balcony with a sea view and was positioned above Tinosa, the old part of Puerto del Carmen, just a ten minute stroll from the sea front with its little harbour, double that to the main Playa Blanca beach with its promenade of bars, discos and European restaurants. It was just right, or so I thought.




“It’s too small,” she croaked as soon as she had stepped inside. (It wasn’t).

“It smells.” (Sea air with a trace of fish from the harbour).

“The bed’s hard.” (As soft as her own back home).

“The beach is miles away.” (Marjory hates beaches because of the sand or pebbles or people).

And then, after her initial shock: “Damn it! Our neighbours are fat Germans.” (Very pleasant couple).

“Everything’s so expensive.” (Except what she buys).

“Too many foreigners here.” (She, of course, wasn’t one of them).

“The pool’s too small.” (Marjory can’t swim).




Can’t swim. A horrible idea had rushed through my mind then. Silly idea, really; I had no need to dispose of Marjory to make my life happy. A perk of my job was the discreet young ladies provided by my foreign hosts: an enjoyable dalliance on a quiet evening away from it all. Another perk was visiting interesting countries. In comparison, Lanzarote was sterile without any discernible character. Still, it didn’t matter. I suppose in a way I was living a double life and Marjory was not only the reason why I was living it, but also the price I had to pay for it. I could handle it. But then again, why should I?

It was a thought I had had many times, but it had never lingered long enough to make an impression. Until Lanzarote. In four days it had come and gone so many times on a daily basis that it seemed almost a preoccupation.

Marjory can’t swim.

I looked across to her bed, her narrow shoulders in my direction. Her emerging suntan made her skin look less pale in the dark. Usually it was visible even when the bedroom light was out. Now it looked almost foreign. Pity it wasn’t.

We did our sunbathing on the balcony, Marjory smothered in creams and lotions. It was a sun trap, and a trap of another kind, a place where Marjory honed her impeccable skills of ill-timing or chattering irrelevancies.

She would talk nonsense just as I got to an engrossing part of a paperback, or deposit a cold unwanted beer on my chest just as I was dozing off in the sun. Or she would fill my ears with valuable comments:




“I can see a cloud,” or,

“It’s hot today,” or her favorite,

“Are you asleep?” (If so, then I shall bloody well wake you up, because that’s what I’m like).




With increasing frequency, I would stand on the balcony and gaze across the old town—which wasn’t particularly old—and sense the attraction of the dazzling white-walled buildings with their blue and green doors and frames. Yet something was missing. The resort was vacuous and clinically clean. Perhaps this was a result of it being originally discovered as a tourist spot by Germans and Scandinavians twenty years ago. I wondered if anything truly old and Canarian remained, apart from an old wrinkled woman in black sitting on a doorstep that I had seen one morning when I was going to the supermarket. She had the strangest eyes I’d ever seen, like those of a dead fish.

Marjory was temporarily off fish. On our second night we had strolled around the old town and ended up by the harbor, appropriately called Fish Harbor. It was a landfill, a large rectangle bordered on the west by a stone quay and small fishing boats, on its seaward side by a wall of volcanic rocks, and on its east side by a restaurant. Near the quayside stood a stone table. On it had been a small pool of blood, fresh, dark, unmistakable in the light of a large moon. A strange odor had filled the immediate area, neither sea, fish or sewage, but rather a combination of all three.

Marjory came over for a look, her eyes narrowing at the sight, her large nose twitching with the smell. “Yuk,” was all she said.

As she walked back to the road I inspected the fishing boats; they bobbed, empty, none showing signs of recent use. No one else was at Fish Harbor then, which I suppose was understandable, it being after midnight and on the road to nowhere. With a cool breeze blowing in from the sea, I had hastened after Marjory and caught her up.

“Probably blood from fish being gutted, the evening catch of a boat long gone.”

“What?”

“The blood on the stone.”

She had looked at me as if I was stupid. “Well, of course it’s fish; it’s Fish Harbor, isn’t it? What did you expect it to be? Some sacrificial altar like those Inca Aztecs you were once so infatuated with?”

I wondered what I would have done had it been Marjory’s blood on that stone table.

Two days later and I was still wondering. Wondering, wondering, wondering… She can’t swim.

I illuminated my watch. One-thirty. Wide awake. Lying in bed was becoming unbearable. I decided to get up and go for a walk, do some serious thinking. I fumbled quietly for some clothes, bundled them together and crept carefully to the door. Unfortunately I was not careful enough and bashed my toes against one of Marjory’s bed legs. With muttered curses I limped on, reached the door and—

“Ha! That’ll teach you to creep about when I’m asleep.”

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“I’ve been awake since I got into bed. My mind’s too active.” The gin, I thought, as I hobbled into the lounge and flicked on a light. “What are you doing up at this hour?” she continued. “Are you going out?”

“Yes. Thought I’d get some fresh air. Bit stuffy in here. Maybe a good walk would tire me out.”

“Doesn’t sound like you at all.” Her pause was one of suspicion, and I had a horrible feeling that—“Sounds a good idea. Think I’ll join you.”

Damn the bloody woman.

The streets were deserted as we strolled past the shops, Marjory looking in the windows and complaining about the prices. And if it wasn’t the shops it was the restaurant menus. Her presence was beginning to annoy me far more than I would have expected. Eventually we came to the sea and took a path that ran parallel to it. Soon we found ourselves approaching Fish Harbor.

Much to our surprise we saw some figures moving in the darkness. They hadn’t noticed us so out of caution I took Marjory’s elbow and guided her to a low jutting wall by the road. She was about to protest when I hissed for quiet and motioned for her to crouch behind the wall. Peeping over the top we watched what was going on.

There were four men standing around the stone table and another by the quayside. One of the four stepped away and I glimpsed something large before he moved back. Marjory saw it, too.

“Is that a fish on the table?” she whispered. “It looked too big, too… unfishlike.”

“I don’t know,” I whispered back, then: “Sshh, they’re talking.”

Their conversation was faint and I didn’t catch all the words, but what I did catch was enough.

“You speak Spanish,” said Marjory. “What are they saying?”

“Something about better fishing at night,” I lied. Had I told her the truth she would have found fault with my ability to translate.

What had really been said was bizarre. One of the men had referred to whatever was on the table as a “poor sacrifice.” Another had said it was too small, too young, wouldn’t sate the appetite of the God-fish. A third said it would have to do, that it was too late to find a better gift. I must admit I did wonder if my translation abilities were as good as I thought they were.

Marjory nudged me. “What’s he holding?” She was referring to the man by the quayside. He was moving to the others with something in his hand. When he handed it to one of the others, I saw that it was a knife. And then I smiled as the obvious hit me. They were cutting up bait for a night’s fishing. Probably had a special fish in mind they wanted to catch. Something fussy and difficult to hook. I started to chuckle. For a moment there I thought they’d been talking about something sinister.

“What are you giggling at?” asked Marjory.

“Us.”

She looked offended and stared along her big nose at me. Then in a loud voice she said, “Huh. You can be such a bloody fool at times.”

Abruptly she stood and stuck her chin out at the men round the table, as if aiming the tip of her nose at them. Her lack of discretion startled me and I glanced nervously at the men. They were staring at Marjory. I looked up at her, saw her mouth open and her eyes widen. I looked back at the men. One had moved a few steps forward, and between him and another I saw an arm hanging over the side of the slab.

I don’t know what I thought or felt when I saw that small arm. The sight simply stunned me. It was a few seconds before I heard Marjory’s strained voice.

“Do something, Jack.”

Stand up, I thought, but before I could do so a bony hand pressed down on my shoulder. I sprung up, turned and stumbled back against the wall. Before me was the old woman in black with the eyes of a dead fish. I stared down at her wrinkled face, dark and mottled like a brown trout. Her mouth was a thin, wide line, and when the lips parted I saw she was as toothless as a… But it was her eyes that hooked me. Hooked me. Like savage barbs in my heart. Not inappropriate for I thought I was on the verge of a heart attack with the hammering in my chest. Those dead fish eyes bored straight into mine. It was like coming face-to-face with a shark and thinking: this is it, my time’s up. Except it wasn’t. Marjory’s voice broke through the background of my perceptions.

“For God’s sake, Jack, do something,” she screeched. “Get that awful woman away, she—she smells disgusting. And those men, they’re coming, Jack.”

But the old woman held my attention. And she spoke, her voice muffled, like underwater noises. Her Spanish was unlike anything I’d heard before. I understood only part of it, but it was enough to guess the rest.

She asked me if I wanted to be free. Free of life’s mundane burdens. Free of the octopus with an eye and a mouth in every tentacle. I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. She continued, asking if I was understanding enough to give, understanding enough to take, understanding enough to know why one must give and take. I mumbled that I didn’t understand. She turned her head slowly to look at Marjory, and that simple movement sent a current of fright right through me, because her eyes stayed fixed at the same angle, as if eye movement was impossible. It was unnerving. Marjory must have thought so too, because she fell silent.

When the woman turned her face back to me, I understood what she had said. I looked at Marjory, glanced over my shoulder at the men, now gathered by the wall, and looked at Marjory again.

“What is it, Jack? What’s going on?” Her voice was shaky, her expression fearful. I continued staring at her, on the one hand enjoying her discomfort, on the other being troubled by mine. She turned to the men. “Do any of you speak English?”

They didn’t move a muscle.

She looked back at me, a new fear in her eyes. A deeper fear. “For God’s sake pull yourself together,” and she grabbed my arm. “I think they’re going to rape me.”

I burst out laughing, repeating in Spanish what she’d said, the men adding laughter to mine. Even the old woman smiled. But Marjory didn’t. Oh, no. She took a step closer and without warning slapped me across the face.

“You despicable bastard,” she said with great enunciation. “How dare you act like this in front of strangers. How dare you!” There was true anger in her voice. “How can you—my husband of thirty years—humiliate me like this? How?” Her eyes brimmed with hatred. She glanced quickly at the others. “I suppose this is your idea of a sick joke, is it? Scaring me like this? Well, Jack-the-big-I-am, you can go to Hell,” and she lashed out again.

This time I caught her wrist and held it tight.

“Let go of me,” she growled. “Let go before I scream the place down.” I kept my grip. “I will, you know, you stupid little man.” The condescension in her voice inflamed me. She started to rant. “How I’ve put up with you for so long I don’t know. But rest assured that when we get back home there are going to be some tough changes for you. It’s time you started showing me some consideration. Now let go!”

I let go and in that instant knew I detested her. Totally. I watched her rub her wrist and it reminded me of something.

“Have you forgotten what’s on the table?” I said.

She stopped rubbing and looked up at me, then slowly scanned the others. A vague awareness seemed to creep across her face. One of the men made a clicking sound with his tongue. I looked at him and he raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

The old woman asked me again if I was understanding enough.

“The table? The God-fish? These I don’t understand.”

She said a name and one of the men began to speak.

“Our family blood is in the soil of this island. It burns even now in the volcanoes that slumber beneath the lava fields. It struggles for life in the sap of twisted trees. But nowhere does it struggle more than in the sea. In no other place have more lives been lost. The sea stanches the flow of lava. It surrounds this island. It must be treated with respect. It must be appeased.”

“Why?”

“With the decline in fishing and the increase in seaworthy boat designs, the sea goes hungry.”

“And the God-fish?”

“The link between the sea and us. A messenger. A very old messenger.”

“A fish?”

“More than just a fish. A creature of the deep.”

A second man stepped forward. “A creature as happy in deep waters as it is happy in the dark depths of the human mind.”

“What?”

“Dolphins and whales have intelligence, can communicate. The God-fish also, but with us.”

“You?”

“Humans.”

“Me,” said the old woman.

I turned and looked at her. “Telepathy?” I must have sounded incredulous, for the woman’s mouth puckered.

“Possession,” said a man.

The old woman muttered something in a language new to me. The men stiffened.

“Come,” said one. “I will show you.”

I glimpsed Marjory’s eyes. They were cold but curious, the earlier fright gone. She glanced at the stone table. “Wait here,” I said to her.

If looks could kill I’d be dead. I turned my back on her and walked round the end of the wall.

“Where are you going?” she demanded. “What’s going on?”

“Shut up and wait,” I snapped back over my shoulder as I followed the man.

We walked to the sea wall and climbed over the enormous stones to the top. He sat down and lit a cigarette. I glanced back at the others and sat down beside him.

“The old woman has called it,” he said without looking at me. “It will come soon.”

I studied his profile. He was weathered, his face stubbly, his dark cropped hair greying. His jaw was square, the cheekbones solid, his nose slightly flat with a touch of Africa in it. He was a solid man, tough, not one to argue with.

“Watch the sea,” he said.

It was as dark as the clouded sky. The moon I hadn’t seen since we left the apartment. Small swells rolled over the lowest stones of the wall. The sound was strangely comforting.

“When you see, you will understand,” said the man.

“And then what? My wife?”

“It is up to you. The sea always acknowledges our gifts.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, a nippy breeze plucking at my sweater. And then it came, a hundred feet offshore, huge and fleshy, scaleless but not finless. Its back broke the surface, revealing thirty feet of almost glowing pink skin topped by a long spiny dorsal fin. And then it was gone.

I craved to see more. The sight had excited me more than anything else I’d ever seen. My wish was fulfilled.

It broke the surface closer this time, head first, and rose above the water, up and up, like a rocket, its mouth and teeth alarmingly close to human, its eyes that of the old woman’s. I saw large fleshy gill covers, pectoral and pelvic fins, and as it touched the sky, long soft dorsal and anal fins, then runs of finlets and finally its tail fin, wide and thin like a Marlin’s. For a second it seemed to hang motionless, a grotesque and profoundly fascinating Dali creation, over a hundred feet long, human-hued with a trace of eel in its delineation. And then it did something I’ve never seen a fish do. It bent in the middle, like a diver, and—before disappearing into the water with a minimum of splash—it turned its head in my direction, in the same manner as the old woman had done, but with its dead fish eyes suddenly imbued with a dreadful yearning that impaled me like a stake of ice. I sat shivering and stared at the spot for a long time after it had vanished. And still I craved for more.

“Now do you understand?” asked the man after a respectful wait.

“Yes,” I whispered. Oh, yes. Those eyes had soaked me with what I had lost over the years. Missed opportunities, friendships and love. They had also soaked me with the absolute mindlessness I had had to put up with, the quagmire of triviality and deceit. “Take her,” I told the man, and he stood and moved back down over the stones. A few seconds later I heard Marjory, but her scream was cut short. Very short.

I stayed staring at the sea, having no wish to know what they were going to do with her, my wife of thirty years. Thirty years, damn it! Not so much wasted as retarded. Now I would be free.

“You wish to see her before she goes?” It was the man who had sat with me. His voice was deliberately soft.

“Tell me more about the God-fish.”

“You have seen it, felt it. What more is there to say?”

I stood and stared at him. “What is it? Where does it come from? How long has this business been going on? That’s what I want to know.”

“Then you must be disappointed. For we know no more.”

“The old woman?”

He shook his head.

“What happens if no gift is made to the God-fish, the sea, whatever?”

“Always a gift is given when required. There is no choice. The call of the God-fish will be heard, the desire to comply imbued, the action guided, the victim found, the gift given. And acknowledged. This is the way it has always been. Since time immemorial.”

“You say acknowledged—how? When it looked at me I felt something, saw something, my life, mistakes, things lost. Is that it?”

“Yes, but there is more.” He started to move away. “You will see.”

“When?”

“Soon,” and he made his way to the others by the table. Something larger than before was on it. I followed after him but stopped at the foot of the sea wall. The men carefully removed the body from the table and carried it to the quay. I looked across Fish Harbor and tasted the air. It was fishy, invigorating. The men gently placed the body into a fishing boat. Already I was swaying with the swell of the sea. I moved to the table, saw traces of fresh blood on the smooth slab. Good-bye Marjory. Good-bye.

One of the men approached me. “We go now,” he said. I nodded. “When we return, you can stay at the old woman’s house. Perhaps there you will learn more.” I nodded again. “You must come with us. You know?” I nodded and walked with him to the quayside.

Before I got down into the boat I looked across to the wall where Marjory and I had first crouched. A street light eased the darkness behind it, revealing the road and path, but the wall cast a shadow on its harbor side, adding a blacker density to the night-sprung darkness along its length. As I stared at the wall, I became aware of an indistinct figure moving in front of it, as if searching the ground for something. I wondered what the old woman’s house would be like. Wondered what she was looking for.

I turned and got into the boat, the body beside me, covered with tarpaulin. I put a hand on the cover, felt a surge of guilt and tried to resist the thoughts about what they had done to her. I failed and succumbed to an overwhelming need to see.

As the boat moved off, I lifted a corner of tarpaulin; heard my name shouted from the quayside; saw bloody eye sockets in an old woman’s face, a child by her side; saw Marjory looking down at me, rubbing her head; saw her face change from anger as she shouted “They attacked me, Jack. They hit me on the head,” to shock as her eyes met mine and she screamed “Your eyes, Jack. What have they done to your eyes?” and realized then how horribly, horribly wrong I had got it all.

I touched my eyes, rubbed them; they felt normal. What had Marjory meant? Panic-stricken, I looked at the men.

“You said you understood,” said one.

“You will like my mother’s house,” said a second, glancing at the old woman’s body.

“My sister lives there,” said a third. “She is understanding and will make a good wife.”

“You have nothing to fear,” said a fourth. “You are amongst friends. We will always help you.”

And then the oldest man, the one I had sat with on the sea wall, looked up, his hard dark eyes transfixing me.

“The old woman was getting beyond her years. She wanted peace with her maker. I thought you knew this.” He looked back to the quayside, to Marjory. “You thought the gift would be her?” he said, looking back at me.

Marjory’s voice screamed out into the darkness. “Jack, you bastard. You wait until you get back. I’ll have the police here waiting for you and your murderous friends. You just wait, I’ll have you in jail and divorce you. You won’t get away with this.” Her voice took too long to recede into the distance.

“She’ll get the police,” I muttered.

“It doesn’t matter,” replied the oldest man.

“Doesn’t matter? Doesn’t matter? She’s a witness. Maybe one of many. The restaurant on the other side; the owners probably live in it. The buildings along the road. Someone could have looked out of the—”

“Do not worry yourself.”

The other men started to chuckle.

“What do you mean—don’t worry? When she calls the—”

“It will be no problem for us.”

“Why?”

“Because I own the restaurant,” said one of the men.

“And I own the buildings on the road,” said another. “They are offices and always empty at night.”

“And I am the Chief Administrator for the island,” said a third.

“And I am the Harbor Master,” said the fourth.

I looked at the oldest man. “And I suppose you’re a policeman?” I said.

His face lit up with a warm smile. “We have not been formally introduced,” and he held out his hand. “My name is Vicente Montero. I am the Chief of Police for Lanzarote, and I see no problems for us. No problems at all.”

And he was right. And so was Marjory, in part. She spent the rest of her holiday in a police cell on a trumped-up charge, conveniently dropped two hours before her plane was due to take off. I saw her once before she left, at a time when the darkness is as comforting as the deeper depths of the sea.

When I removed my sunglasses, the dull light in her cell screamed into my eyes. (They say my eyes will slowly adapt to light, but it will take time). When Marjory started to scream I put my sunglasses back on, but her screaming continued. I left, unable to bear her noise. Besides, I had nothing to say. My eyes said it all, though I doubt she would ever be able to understand. Anyway, I really only wanted one last look at her.

When she returned to England, she divorced me. My children flew out to see me, but my new friends took me to a small fishing village in Tenerife until they had returned home. They write, and I reply, but never with an invitation. They wouldn’t understand either. And they certainly wouldn’t understand my new wife.

I don’t miss them, for I have other children now. Sometimes at night I lie in bed and swim with them. Their life is a free life, and what they give me is so much more than what I can give them. Which is to be expected, for they are older than the oceans and have never been caught by net or hook, and the blackest depths they inhabit are so much more illuminating than the harsh glare of the other world, your world.

God-fish; their name was not ill-chosen.




RIDI BOBO

by Robert Devereaux







“Ridi Bobo” is a very strange story from that great bastion of the unnerving, Weird Tales. I read this in manuscript form last year and would have included it in that year’s The Year’s Best Horror Stories, but the story was bumped to a 1993 issue, making it ineligible for the 1992 harvest of horrors. Ellen Datlow had the same problem with the story for her year’s best anthology. Fortunately, we solved the problem for 1993.

Robert Devereaux was coy when asked to furnish the usual biographical notes, and I’m tempted to make some of them up just to serve as warning to others. He did admit to living in Fort Collins, Colorado, and having had a first horror novel, Deadweight, published this past March by Dell/Abyss. Since the end of 1990 he has had about a dozen stories published in the small press and in anthologies. And he is at work on his next novel.

Devereaux also was once changed into a herring, eats paper clips and eight-track tapes, feeds expresso to pigeons, and has twice been seen with Elvis atop Boulder Dam.





At first little things niggled at Bobo’s mind: the forced quality of Kiki’s mimed chuckle when he went into his daily pratfall getting out of bed; the great care she began to take painting in the teardrop below her left eye; the way she idly fingered a pink puffball halfway down her shiny green suit. Then more blatant signals: the creases in her crimson tent; the bored arcs her floppy shoes described when she walked the ruff-necked piglets; a wistful shake of the head when he brought out their favorite set of shiny steel rings and invited her, with the artful pleas of his expressive white gloves, to juggle with them.

But Bobo knew it was time to seek professional help when he whipped out his rubber chicken and held it aloft in a stranglehold—its eyes X’d shut in fake death, its pitiful head lolled against the back of his glove—and all Kiki could offer was a soundless yawn, a fatigued cock of her conical nightcap, and the curve of her back, one lazy hand waving bye-bye before collapsing languidly beside her head on the pillow. No honker would be brought forth that evening from her deep hip pocket, though he could discern its outline there beneath the cloth, a coy maddening shape that almost made him hop from toe to toe on his own. But he stopped himself, stared forlornly at the flaccid fowl in his hand, and shoved it back inside his trousers.

He went to check on the twins, their little gloved hands hugging the blankets to their chins, their perfect snowflake-white faces vacant with sleep. People said they looked more like Kiki than him, with their lime-green hair and the markings around their eyes. Beautiful boys, Jojo and Juju. He kissed their warm round red noses and softly closed the door.

In the morning, Bobo, wearing a tangerine apron over his bright blue suit, watched Kiki drive off in their new rattletrap Weezo, thick puffs of exhaust exploding out its tailpipe. Back in the kitchen, he reached for the Buy-Me Pages. Nervously rubbing his pate with his left palm, he slalomed his right index finger down the Snooper listings. Lots of flashy razz-ma-tazz ads, lots of zingers to catch a poor clown’s attention. He needed simple. He needed quick. Ah! His finger thocked the entry short and solid as a raindrop on a roof; he noted the address and slammed the book shut.

Bobo hesitated, his fingers on his apron bow. For a moment the energy drained from him and he saw his beloved Kiki as she’d been when he married her, honker out bold as brass, doing toe hops in tandem with him, the shuff-shuff-shuff of her shiny green pants legs, the ecstatic ripples that passed through his rubber chicken as he moved it in and out of her honker and she bulbed honks around it. He longed to mimic sobbing, but the inspiration drained from him. His shoulders rose and fell once only; his sweep of orange hair canted to one side like a smart hat.

Then he whipped the apron off in a tangerine flurry, checked that the boys were okay playing with the piglets in the backyard, and was out the front door, floppy shoes flapping toward downtown.




Momo the Dick had droopy eyes, baggy pants, a shuffle to his walk, and an office filled to brimming with towers of blank paper, precariously tilted—like gaunt placarded and stilted clowns come to dine—over his splintered desk. Momo wore a battered old derby and mock-sighed a lot, like a bloodhound waiting to die.

He’d been decades in the business and had the dust to prove it. As soon as Bob walked in, the tramp-wise clown seated behind the desk glanced once at him, peeled off his derby, twirled it, and very slowly very deliberately moved a stiffened fist in and out of it. Then his hand opened—red nails, white fingers thrust out of burst gloves—as if to say, Am I right?

Bobo just hung his head. His clownish hands drooped like weights at the ends of his arms.

The detective set his hat back on, made sympathetic weepy movements—one hand fisted to his eye—and motioned Bobo over. An unoiled drawer squealed open, and out of it came a puff of moths and a bulging old scrapbook. As Momo turned its pages, Bobo saw lots of illicit toe hops, lots of swollen honkers, lots of rubber chickens poking where they had no business poking. There were a whole series of pictures for each case, starting with a photo of his mopey client, progressing to the flagrante delicto evidence, and ending, almost without exception, in one of two shots: a judge with a shock of pink hair and a huge gavel thrusting a paper reading DIVORCE toward the adulterated couple, the third party handcuffed to a Kop with a tall blue hat and a big silver star on his chest; or two corpses, their floppy shoes pointing up like warped surfboards, the triumphant spouse grinning like weak tea and holding up a big pistol with a BANG! flag out its barrel, and Momo, a hand on the spouse’s shoulder, looking sad as always and not a little shocked at having closed another case with such finality.

When Bobo broke down and mock-wept, Momo pulled out one end of a checkered hanky and offered it. Bobo cried long and hard, pretending to dampen yard upon yard of the unending cloth. When he was done, Momo reached into his desk drawer, took out a sheet with the word CONTRACT at the top and two X’d lines for signatures, and dipped a goose-quill pen into a large bottle of ink. Bobo made no move to take it but the old detective just kept holding it out, the picture of patience, and drops of black ink fell to the desktop between then.




Momo tracked his client’s wife to a seedy Three-Ring Motel off the beaten path. She hadn’t been easy to tail. A sudden rain had come up and the pennies that pinged off his windshield had reduced visibility by half, which made the eager Weezo hard to keep up with. But Momo managed it. Finally, with a sharp right and a screech of tires, she turned into the motel parking lot. Momo slowed to a stop, eyeing her from behind the brim of his sly bowler. She parked, climbed up out of the tiny car like a soufflé rising, and rapped on the door of Room Five, halfway down from the office.

She jiggled as she waited. It didn’t surprise Momo, who’d seen lots of wives jiggle in his time. This one had a pleasingly sexy jiggle to her, as if she were shaking a cocktail with her whole body. He imagined the bulb of her honker slowly expanding, its bell beginning to flare open in anticipation of her little tryst. Momo felt his bird stir in his pants, but a soothing pat or two to his pocket and a few deep sighs put it back to sleep. There was work afoot. No time nor need for the wild flights of his long-departed youth.

After a quick reconnoiter, Momo went back to the van for his equipment. The wooden tripod lay heavy across his shoulder and the black boxy camera swayed like the head of a willing widow as he walked. The rest—unexposed plates, flash powder, squeezebulb—Momo carried in a carpetbag in his free hand. His down-drawn mouth puffed silently from the exertion, and he cursed the manufacturers for refusing to scale down their product, it made it so hard on him in the inevitable chase.

They had the blinds down but the lights up full. It made sense. Illicit lovers liked to watch themselves act naughty, in Momo’s experience, their misdoings fascinated them so. He was in luck. One wayward blind, about chest high, strayed leftward, leaving a rectangle big enough for his lens. Miming stealth, he set up the tripod, put in a plate, and sprinkled huge amounts of glittery black powder along his flashbar. He didn’t need the flashbar, he knew that, and it caused all manner of problems for him, but he had his pride in the aesthetics of picture-taking, and he was willing to blow his cover for the sake of that pride. When the flash went off, you knew you’d taken a picture; a quick bulb squeeze in the dark was a cheat and not at all in keeping with his code of ethics.

So the flash flared, and the smoke billowed through the loud report it made, and the peppery sting whipped up into Momo’s nostrils on the inhale. Then came the hurried slap of shoes on carpet and a big slatted eyelid opened in the blinds, out of which glared a raging clownface. Momo had time to register that this was one hefty punchinello, with muscle-bound eyes and lime-green hair that hung like a writhe of caterpillars about his face. And he saw the woman, Bobo’s wife, honker out, looking like the naughty fornicator she was but with an overlay of uh-oh beginning to sheen her eyes.

The old adrenaline kicked in. The usually poky Momo hugged up his tripod and made a mad dash for the van, his carpetbag shoved under one arm, his free hand pushing the derby down on his head. It was touch and go for a while, but Momo had the escape down to a science, and the beefy clown he now clouded over with a blanket of exhaust—big lumbering palooka caught offguard in the act of chicken stuffing—proved no match for the wily Momo.




Bobo took the envelope and motioned Momo to come in, but Momo declined with a hopeless shake of the head. He tipped his bowler and went his way, sorrow slumped like a mantle about his shoulders. With calm deliberation Bobo closed the door, thinking of Jojo and Juju fast asleep in their beds. Precious boys, flesh of his flesh, energetic pranksters, they deserved better than this.

He unzippered the envelope and pulled out the photo. Some clown suited in scarlet was engaged in hugger-mugger toe hops with Kiki. His rubber chicken, unsanctified by papa church, was stiff-necked as a rubber chicken can get and stuffed deep inside the bell of Kiki’s honker. Bobo leaned back against the door, his shoes levering off the rug like slapsticks. He’d never seen Kiki’s pink rubber bulb swell up so grandly. He’d never seen her hand close so tightly around it nor squeeze with such ardency. He’d never ever seen the happiness that danced so brightly in her eyes, turning her painted tear to a tear of joy.

He let the photo flutter to the floor. Blessedly it fell facedown. With his right hand he reached deep into his pocket and pulled out his rubber chicken, sad purple-yellow bird, a male’s burden in this world. The sight of it brought back memories of their wedding. They’d had it performed by Father Beppo in the center ring of the Church of Saint Canio. It had been a beautiful day, balloons so thick the air felt close under the bigtop. Father Beppo had laid one hand on Bobo’s rubber chicken, one on Kiki’s honker, inserting hen into honker for the first time as he lifted his long-lashed eyes to the heavens, wrinkle lines appearing on his meringue-white forehead. He’d looked to Kiki, then to Bobo, for their solemn nods toward fidelity.

And now she’d broken that vow, thrown it to the wind, made a mockery of their marriage.

Bobo slid to the floor, put his hands to his face, and wept. Real wet tears this time, and that astonished him, though not enough—no, not nearly enough—to divert his thoughts from Kiki’s treachery. His gloves grew soggy with weeping. When the flood subsided, he reached down and turned the photo over once more, scrutinizing the face of his wife’s lover. And then the details came together—the ears, the mouth, the chin; oh God no, the hair and the eyes—and he knew Kiki and this bulbousnosed bastard had been carrying on for a long time, a very long time indeed. Once more he inventoried the photo, frantic with the hope that his fears were playing magic tricks with the truth.

But the bald conclusion held.

At last, mulling things over, growing outwardly calm and composed, Bobo tumbled his eyes down the length of the flamingo-pink carpet, across the spun cotton-candy pattern of the kitchen floor, and up the cabinets to the Jojo-and-Juju-proofed top drawer.




Bobo sat at his wife’s vanity, his face close to the mirror. Perfume atomizers jutted up like minarets, thin rubber tubing hanging down from them and ending in pretty pink squeezebulbs Bobo did his best to ignore.

He’d strangled the piglets first, squealing the life out of them, his large hands thrust beneath their ruffs. Patty Petunia had pistoned her trotters against his chest more vigorously and for a longer time than had Pepper, to Bobo’s surprise; she’d always seemed so much the frailer of the two. When they lay still, he took up his carving knife and sliced open their bellies, fixed on retrieving the archaic instruments of comedy. Just as his tears had shocked him, so too did the deftness of his hands—guided by instinct he’d long supposed atrophied—as they removed the bladders, cleansed them in the water trough, tied them off, inflated them, secured each one to a long thin bendy dowel. He’d left Kiki’s dead pets sprawled in the muck of their pen, flies growing ever more interested in them.

Sixty-watt lights puffed out around the perimeter of the mirror like yellow honker bulbs. Bobo opened Kiki’s cosmetics box and took out three squat shallow cylinders of color. The paint seemed like miniature seas, choppy and wet, when he unscrewed and removed the lids.

He’d taken a tin of black paint into the boys’ room—that and the carving knife. He sat beside Jojo in a sharp jag of moonlight, listening to the card-in-bike-spoke duet of their snores, watching their fat wide lips flutter like stuck bees. Bobo dolloped one white finger with darkness, leaning in to X a cross over Jojo’s right eyelid. If only they’d stayed asleep. But they woke. And Bobo could not help seeing them in new light. They sat up in mock-stun, living outcroppings of Kiki’s cruelty, and Bobo could not stop himself from finger-scooping thick gobs of paint and smearing their faces entirely in black. But even that was not enough for his distracted mind, which spiraled upward into bloody revenge, even though it meant carving his way through innocence. By the time he plunged the blade into the sapphire silk of his first victim’s suit, jagging open downward a bloody furrow, he no longer knew which child he murdered. The other one led him a merry chase through the house, but Bobo scruffed him under the cellar stairs, his shoes windmilling helplessly as Bobo hoisted him up and sank the knife into him just below the second puffball. He’d tucked them snug beneath their covers, Kiki’s brood; then he’d tied their rubber chickens together at the neck and nailed them smackdab in the center of the heartshaped headboard.

Bobo dipped a brush into the cobalt blue, outlined a tear under his left eye, filled it in. It wasn’t perfect but it would do.

As horsehair taught paint how to cry, he surveyed in his mind’s eye the lay of readiness: the bucket of crimson confetti poised above the front door; the exploding cigar he would light and jam into the gape of her mouth; the tangerine apron he’d throw in her face, the same apron that hung loose now about his neck, its strings snipped off and spilling out of its big frilly kangaroo pouch; the Deluxe Husband-Tamer Slapstick he’d paddle her bottom with, as they did the traditional high-stepping divorce chase around the house; and the twin bladders to buffet her about the ears with, just to show her how serious things were with him. But he knew, nearly for a certainty, that none of these would stanch his blood lust, that it would grow with each antic act, not assuaged by any of them, not peaking until he plunged his hand into the elephant’s-foot umbrella stand in the hallway and drew forth the carving knife hidden among the parasols—whose hands shot up like cocktail toothpicks out of a ripple of pink chiffon—drew it out and used it to plumb Kiki’s unfathomable depths.

Another tear, a twin of the first, he painted under his right eye. He paused to survey his right cheekbone, planning where precisely to paint the third.

Bobo heard, at the front door, the rattle of Kiki’s key in the lock.




Momo watched aghast.

He’d brushed off with a dove-white handkerchief his collapsible stool in the bushes, slumped hopelessly into it, given a mock-sigh, and found the bent slat he needed for a splendid view of the front hallway and much of the living room, given the odd neck swivel. On the off-chance that their spat might end in reconciliation, Momo’d also positioned a tall rickety stepladder beside Bobo’s bedroom window. It was perilous to climb and a balancing act and a half not to fall off of, but a more leisurely glimpse of Kiki’s lovely honker in action was, he decided, well worth the risk.

What he could see of the confrontation pleased him. These were clowns in their prime, and every swoop, every duck, every tumble, tuck, and turn, was carried out with consummate skill. For all the heartache Momo had to deal with, he liked his work. His clients quite often afforded him a front row seat at the grandest entertainments ever staged: spills, chills, and thrills, high passion and low comedy, inflated bozos pin-punctured and deflated ones puffed up with triumph. Momo took deep delight—though his forlorn face cracked nary a smile—in the confetti, the exploding cigar, what he could see and hear of their slapstick chase. Even the bladder-buffeting Bobo visited upon his wife strained upward at the down-droop of Momo’s mouth, he took such fond joy in the old ways, wishing with deep soundless sighs that more clowns these days would re-embrace them.

His first thought when the carving knife flashed in Bobo’s hand was that it was rubber, or retractable. But there was no drawn-out scene played, no mock-death here; the blow came swift, the blood could not be mistaken for ketchup or karo syrup, and Momo learned more about clown anatomy than he cared to know—the gizmos, the coils, the springs that kept them ticking; the organs, more piglike than clownlike, that bled and squirted; the obscure voids glimmering within, filled with giggle power and something deeper. And above it all, Bobo’s plunging arm and Kiki’s crimped eyes and open arch of a mouth, wide with pain and drawn down at the corners by the weight of her dying.

Momo drew back from the window, shaking his head. He vanned the stool, he vanned the ladder. There would be no honker action tonight. None, anyway, he cared to witness. He reached deep into the darkness of the van, losing his balance and bellyflopping so that his legs flew up in the night air and his white shanks were exposed from ankle to knee. Righting himself, he sniffed at the red carnation in his lapel, took the inevitable faceful of water, and shouldered the pushbroom he’d retrieved.

The neighborhood was quiet. Rooftops, curved in high hyperbolas, were silvered in moonlight. So, too, the paved road and the cobbled walkways that led up to the homes on Bobo’s side of the street. As Momo made his way without hurry to the front door, his shadow eased back and forth, covering and uncovering the brightly lit house as if it were the dark wing of the Death Clown flapping casually, silently, overhead. He hoped Bobo would not yank open the door, knife still dripping, and fix him in the red swirl of his crazed eyes. Yet maybe that would be for the best. It occurred to Momo that a world which contained horrors like these might happily be left behind. Indeed, from one rare glimpse at rogue-clown behavior in his youth, as well as from gruesome tales mimed by other dicks, Momo thought it likely that Bobo, by now, had had the same idea and had brought his knifeblade home.

This case had turned dark indeed. He’d have lots of shrugging and moping, much groveling and kowtowing to do, before this was over. But that came, Momo knew, with the territory. Leaning his tired bones into the pushbroom, he swept a swatch of moonlight off the front stoop onto the grass. It was his duty, as a citizen and especially as a practitioner of the law, to call in the Kops. A few more sweeps and the stoop was moonless; the lawn to either side shone with shattered shards of light. He would finish the walkway, then broom away a spill of light from the road in front of Bobo’s house, before firing the obligatory flare into the sky.

Time enough then to endure the noises that would tear open the night, the clamorous bell of the mismatched wheeled, pony-drawn firetruck, the screaming whistles in the bright red mouths of the Kops clinging to the Kop Kar as it raced into the neighborhood, hands to their domed blue hats, the bass drums booming as Bobo’s friends and neighbors marched out of their houses, spouses and kids, poodles and ponies and piglets highstepping in perfect columns behind.

For now, it was enough to sweep moonlight from Bobo’s cobbled walkway, to darken the wayward clown’s doorway, to take in the scent of a fall evening and gaze up wistfully at the aching gaping moon.




ADROITLY WRAPPED

by Mark McLaughlin







Mark McLaughlin was born December 12, 1961 in Iowa and presently resides in Davenport. I think this is the first story your editor has reprinted from a writer with the same birthday. Could be a plot.

Of himself, McLaughlin writes: “I’m a graphic designer and copywriter here in the Midwest. My fiction has appeared in The Silver Web, Tekeli-li!, Not One of Us, Dark Infinity, Mystic Fiction, Gaslight, Argonaut, and other publications. Plus, I have a long poem in the Air Fish anthology. I am the editor of The Urbanite (a journal of surreal city fiction and poetry) and The Brood of Sycorax (a magazine-format collection of monster fiction). I’m Graeco-Gaelic (half Greek, half Irish) and I drink waaaaay too much coffee/expresso/cappuccino. I enjoy low-budget horror movies, chocolate, and tossing rubber toys for my huge tabby cat to fetch.” Wonder if that’s an orange tabby.





“So what’s in the sack?” Anthony said, eyeing the bundle that pale, leatherclad Punkin dragged along the path. A full moon brought a greenish-silver glow to the pebbles in the path and the chains on Punkin’s jacket.

“‘What’s in the Sack?’ Sounds like a game show.” Punkin’s nervous gait sped into a loping gallop, so that Anthony had to run to keep up with him. Odd slitherings and slappings issued from the burlap sack as it bounced in the dust. “I’ll give you three guesses,” the pale youth said.

“Is it…” Anthony flipped his long black bangs out of his face. “Is it a baby pterodactyl, flapping its membranous wings in the throes of death?”

“No… but you know, they taste just like chicken.” Punkin swung the sack over his shoulder. Startled, a flock of crystal birds flew out of the trees lining the path.

“Is it… An oversized jungle slug? A miniature sea-squid?” Anthony listened closely to the wet whisperings inside the sack. “The lymph glands of a dead Cyclops? Munchkin roadkill from the Yellow Brick Highway?”

“Wrong and wrong and wrong and wrong again, Contestant Number One.” Punkin flashed the gap-toothed Halloween smile that had earned him his nickname. “No new car, no trip to Tierra del Fuego. So sorry.”

Anthony glimpsed yellow eyes glowing in a shadowed treetop. Three…? Leaves rustled and the eyes disappeared. He stopped to peer into the shadows, searching for the dubious owner of the eyes. Then he noticed that Punkin, still running, was far ahead of him. He could hear the pale youth whistling a shrill, pointless tune. Anthony raced to catch up.

He was out of breath by the time they reached the long, low house of Athena Moth. He ran his fingers through his bangs and static crackled… no doubt his hair was standing on end. He spit onto his fingers and slicked his bangs into place.

Punkin rang the doorbell and a snippet of Verdi’s “Un Bel Di” echoed through the house. Athena answered the door wearing white face, a black wig, and a geisha costume.

“Oh, why, hello.” She always seemed surprised to see them, even when the visit was scheduled. “Come in, come in… but please, forgive the mess.”

With every visit, Anthony pondered the same riddle. Athena was a she… But was she a woman? Athena had a low voice and a large-boned build. She always wore heavy makeup—even on her hands. And, of course, there were the costumes… Still, there were other factors that clouded the issue. The delicacy of the mouth, the hands, the ears. The lack of both an Adam’s apple and a crotch bulge. The exciting way that she gazed at him through half-closed purple eyes (men are taught to stare down their world).

This time, Anthony decided to address the issue directly. “So, Athena. What’s under the kimono?”

“My body. What else—a diesel engine?” She led them to an overstuffed couch in a parlor lined with shelves. These shelves were filled with books, jar of herbs and animal hair, lipsticks and stone statuettes.

“He’s full of questions tonight,” Punkin said, plopping down onto the couch. “He also wanted to know what was in the sack.”

Anthony sat by the pale youth’s side. His hip sank down between the soft cushions. He hated this couch, this wicked, butt-eating couch.

“We have a surprise for you, Anthony,” Athena said, taking the sack from Punkin. “Did you think that we’d forget that tomorrow was your birthday?”

Anthony glanced at his cheap digital wristwatch—9:30 PM—then pressed the button that brought the date to the screen. 10-12. “God, you’re right. I’d forgotten myself.” He sighed. “Twenty-one and still living with my parents. Still flipping burgers at Fry-Pappy’s. Still…” He didn’t care to go on.

Athena nodded. “I understand.” She opened a door in a shadowed corner of the parlor. With one hand, she lifted a department store mannequin out of the closet and leaned it against a table in the center of the room. Was the mannequin quite light or was Athena quite strong?

“You’re lonely,” she said. “Lonely in that special way.” She then opened Punkin’s sack and pulled out a length of pink ribbon. Soft. Thick. Moist. And really, far too pink.

She proceeded to pull yards of ribbon from the sack. “Looks a bit like human skin, doesn’t it? Well, that’s just what it is. But don’t worry, Anthony, it doesn’t belong to anyone. Isn’t that right, Punkin?”

Punkin grinned and nodded. “Athena gave me the recipe. Anybody can make it.”

Anthony watched as Athena began to wrap the ribbon tightly around the left foot and ankle of the mannequin. “But—is it real skin? As real as mine or Punkin’s?”

“Of course it is,” Athena said. “I can make anything out of anything. You should know that by now. Look at me… I used to be a tiny Malaysian fellow. Before that I was an old woman in a nursing home. Skin? Skin can be made from silk ribbon, soaked for three weeks in a special solution.” The geisha wrapped faster and faster to the top of the thigh. “One must take great care in the winding. I allowed Punkin to prepare the skin—he wanted to help so badly—but the wrapping is my area of expertise. See how I’m folding the tissue between the legs? You’ll not have cause for complaint later, birthday boy.”

“What smells like vanilla?” Anthony said.

“The solution for the ribbon.” The geisha touched the pink strip with the equally pink tip of her tongue. Her purple eyes flashed. “It contains vanilla. And cinnamon.” The pink strip flew round and round the abdomen. “And oregano and ground quartz crystals and fish-eggs and white wine and—”

“White wine?” Punkin exclaimed. His eyes went wide. “You told me ‘wine.’ You didn’t say that it had to be white.”

“Oh.” Athena slowed in her wrapping. “Oh. Oh.” She paused, then continued to wrap at full speed. “Oh, well. Even the most precise recipes should allow for a degree of improvisation.”

She covered one arm, the head, the other arm, then shot back down to the right leg. When she had finished with the wrapping, she fished through a large jar of marbles on one of the shelves.

“Pretty green eyes for a pretty dolly,” she said, tucking two green marbles into the folds of the mannequin’s face. She then stepped back from her creation and pointed at it with the thumb and ring-finger of her left hand.

“Be as we will. Be what we wish,” she murmured. “What you should be you shall be. You shall be what we wish you to be…”

Anthony had seen Athena perform this sort of ritual before. One can actually hypnotize soulless but spiritually energized objects through the repetition of significant nonsense. Athena did not have wiring in her house, but all of her appliances worked.

“Now you must say a few words, Anthony,” she said. She grabbed him by the hands and pulled him from the soft jaws of the couch.

He stood before the dolly. The wrapped figure was an inch or two shorter than himself. “What should I say?”

“Tell it how long you wish it to live.” The geisha tapped him on the wrist. “And make the hand.”

Anthony thought for a long moment. Then he pointed the appropriate fingers at the mannequin and said, “Live until you’ve done what you’ve got to do.”

Slowly, the wrappings melded together, forming a smooth sheath of flesh. Openings appeared in the flesh—ears, nostrils, mouth and more. The sheen of life glowed in its eyes of solid green. The mannequin had no hair, nipples, or fingernails. The navel was shaped like a shallow clockwise swirl.

The mannequin had a sweet, small-featured face. It took Anthony by the hand and led him out of the house as Punkin and Athena sang “Happy Birthday.”

The mannequin tried to lead him into the very heart of the woods, but Anthony held back, keeping to the more familiar paths. He didn’t want to stray too far from the house. Athena was the eye of a magical hurricane… Perhaps the dolly would cease to function if allowed to walk beyond the boundaries of Athena’s influence.

“Can you speak?” Anthony asked.

The mannequin opened its mouth and moved its lips, but the only sound that came forth was a faint hiss. Just as well, Anthony thought. The dolly had been alive for less than fifteen minutes. What was there for it to talk about?

Soon they found a small open space where the ground was covered with moss. The mannequin settled down on this soft green bed.

Anthony was about to join his companion when he heard a shrill, distant whistling. Was Punkin going home without him? He stared into the shadows of the woods. The sound was fading. He turned and looked down at the dolly. It was lovely and petite—and utterly boring. He suddenly wished that the dolly could be clever, like Athena. And exotic, like Athena. And stylish and sexy and wise. Like Athena.

Rows of thin black lines began to slice across the dolly’s face and body, and Anthony leaned closer. Was this a trick of the moonlight? The effect resembled the shadow of Venetian blinds. Slowly he realized that the widening bands of blackness were not shadows at all.

The wrappings were coming loose.

Anthony backed away. The mannequin stared curiously at him. A hard look crept into its eyes.

He turned and began to walk in the direction of the whistling. He heard a hiss—a hiss that grew steadily louder, angrier. Leaves crackled behind him and he began to run.

“Punkin!” he cried. “Help me, Punkin!”

Through the trees, Anthony saw the path. He broke through a tangle of weeds and landed in the dust. He scrambled to his feet and looked about. Which way to run? Surely Punkin couldn’t be too far away.

Suddenly, Anthony was grabbed fiercely by the shoulder. He glimpsed a loosely-fleshed hand out of the corner of his eye. Grabbing the dolly’s wrist, he fell to his knees and pulled the creature to the ground.

The mannequin’s hiss rose to an enraged squeal. Pale ribbons of its flesh hung down, revealing a pinkish-brown musculature that resembled wood grain.

“Where are you?” Punkin voice drifted out of the shadows. “What’s that noise? Is it a pig?”

One of the dolly’s eyes had fallen out—the other stared lividly at him. The creature tried to grab Anthony by the forearm, but he moved away just in time. He noticed a long loop of flesh trailing from the dolly’s knee. He seized the loop and pulled, ripping free a yard of skin. He dug the heel of a boot into the joint and the entire lower leg flew off.

Shrieking with pain, the mannequin pushed Anthony onto his back and climbed on top of him. Pink ribbons flailed through the air as it pounded madly at his chest. The creature’s other eye popped out. One of its hands broke off as it pummeled him. A pinkish froth dribbled from its writhing lips. Anthony stared into the black sockets of the mannequin’s face. These sockets were not empty. They were filled with horrible, insatiable hunger.

He was still staring when a hollow thump sounded and the face—disappeared.

Punkin was standing by his side. “I kicked its head off,” the pale youth said. “Was that okay?”

Anthony crawled out from under the mannequin. “Yes. That was fine, thank you,” he said tiredly. Punkin helped him to his feet.

They looked down at the dolly’s still-writhing body. Then Punkin searched the weeds along the path until he found the head. He held it at arm’s length by ribbons of its skin. “It’s going to keep living ’til it does what it’s got to do,” he said.

Anthony picked up the mannequin’s twitching hand. “Oh, how sad,” he said. “I weep big tears.” He threw the hand deep into the woods. Then he picked up the broken piece of leg and flung it in the opposite direction. He nodded to his friend.

Punkin swung the ragged head by its ribbons to gather momentum. Finally he let go, and it flew through the night like a fleshy comet.




Anthony entered Athena’s long, low house without knocking. He found her in the parlor.

“Oh. Why, why… hello,” she stammered.

Anthony regarded her with what he hoped was a smoldering stare. “I want you.”

“Oh. Oh.” Athena looked to the shelves—to the books, the jars, the statuettes. “Is Punkin with you?”

“No. I asked him to go on home without me. Didn’t you hear what I said? I want you, Athena.”

“I heard you.” Her eyes settled at last on a brown bottle nestled in a pile of yellow rags. “Do you realize what you are asking?”

Anthony shrugged. “I don’t care if you’re a guy or a lady or what.”

“‘Or what’ can cover quite a bit of ground.” She opened the bottle and poured a thin amber fluid onto one of the rags. “I’ve been many people over the years, Anthony. I’ve been old, young, large, small, male, female…” She rubbed the wet cloth over her face and hands. “It takes quite a while to prepare an acceptable—facade, I think, is a good word. Still, it takes only a moment to undo the illusion. Only a moment to reveal the real me.”

Athena’s thick makeup hid more than blemishes, more than even mere gender; this magical concoction hid the very contours of the flesh. Unleashed, her purple eyes crawled slowly over the surface of her opalescent face. A delicate lacework of gills fluttered at her jawline. Her shining claws fumbled at square black buttons, and the kimono dropped to the floor.

“So,” she whispered through the uppermost of the mouths. “Do you still want me?”

Anthony studied Athena Moth for a full minute. Then he took a step forward.

Then another.




THICKER THAN WATER

by Joel Lane







Born in Exeter in 1963, Joel Lane grew up in Birmingham, studied at Cambridge, and currently lives in Birmingham, where he is working for an educational publisher. Recent stories by Lane have appeared in Darklands 2, The Sun Rises Red, Sugar Sleep, Exuberance and Peeping Tom, with others forthcoming in Chills, The Science of Sadness and Little Deaths. A selection of Lane’s poems appeared in Private Cities, a three-poet anthology from Stride Publications, and a collection of his stories is due out from Egerton Press in autumn of 1994. Watch for that one.

Lane’s fiction is surreal and downbeat, often about lives lost within the shadows of urban decay and despair. As Etchison and other kindred writers have learned: too disturbing for mainstream; too mainstream for horror. That was then. Commenting on “Thicker Than Water,” Lane says: “it was a difficult story to place, and was sent just about everywhere before ending up in Panurge, a literary magazine with offbeat sympathies (they’ve also published stories by D.F. Lewis and Brian Howell).” D.F. Lewis appears later in this book. I’ll be on the watch for Brian Howell.





Paul had never seen any of the canal people, but he knew all about them. Everyone knew. The way Kevin had worded it, the assignment didn’t require him to find anything out. “Go and have a look. Get a feel for the district. It might give you some ideas for a feature… What we need, Paul, is a serious campaign. Rumors are not enough. The city needs a real answer to this problem.” Of course, Kevin would never tell him to make things up. That way, he couldn’t be held responsible for what the Messenger printed; or its effects. Paul didn’t know if the Messenger’s editor was capable of feeling guilty. He only knew that guilt made you lie to yourself, as well as to others.

The afternoon dragged, while Paul browsed through the archive office’s local press cuttings on “the problem.” It was too hot to do much active work; and there was no fan in the archive office, which smelled of old paper. There were reports, going back five or ten years, about the vagrant communities around Dudley and West Bromwich. One article said they were gypsies; another said they were just ordinary sub-citizens on the run from the authorities. They drifted up from the South and got stuck here. Paul didn’t like the word “sub-citizen,” it reminded him of “sub-editor,” which was his job most of the time. He preferred to use the old-fashioned words like scum, dropout or criminal.

Even from the early years, there were stories about break-ins and thefts from shops and warehouses in these districts. Mostly food and clothes, rather than things to be resold. Lately, of course, the accusations were more serious. But the whole situation had changed. Groups of squatters were occupying the derelict offices and tenement buildings, driving out the legitimate community. They weren’t canal people any more, though the name had stuck. The Messenger had carried a story about disappeared babies and small children. Kevin wasn’t a fool. He’d remarked to Paul that when babies went missing in bad areas, especially when the parents were young, it was easier to blame the gypsies than to investigate. This summer, with the heat and the water shortages, disease was spreading in the unsafe areas. Most local peopled hoped it would wipe out the vagrants before they contaminated the city.

The air in the archive office grew hotter as the afternoon progressed and the sun drew level with the windows. Paul’s vision blurred as his contact lenses began to swell up; rubbing his eyes got dust onto the surfaces, and he couldn’t blink it away. He gave up reading and let the anger in his mind edit and stress the thoughts. A big fly, droning at the window, had the same effect. When it settled within Paul’s reach, he smeared it with the palm of his hand. At once, he made for the toilets and washed his hands with a liquid soap that had the consistency of saliva. The sound of water running in the basin made him pause, briefly unable to move. He didn’t know why, and he felt guilty about wasting tap water. After that, he filed away the newspaper cuttings and left early.

When he got home, Carol was in a bad mood. Their elder daughter, Dawn, had been off school with an attack of dysentery. Paul went up to see her, but she was asleep in a darkened room. “I want to talk to you after dinner,” Carol said. They ate in a fatigued silence; even Stella, their younger daughter, was unusually quiet. Dawn stayed in her room. After dinner, Paul watched the news on three channels in succession. The living room was still full of sunlight; it felt wrong, this late. The fly’s blood was a streak across his thoughts. He wondered why it was paler than human blood. The local news on the independent channel included a report on the new science and technology exhibition center at Monkspath. Someone from the city council described it as part of this year’s major initiative to brighten up the region’s image.

Paul got up and went into the kitchen, where he poured himself a large gin. From habit, he filled up the glass with ice; then he wished he’d left it neat. He was still staring at the glass when Carol found him. “Paul,” she said. “I found this with your clothes.” It was a page from a local newspaper, not the Messenger; she had to unfold it several times. Paul blinked at it and restrained himself from drinking.

“Yeh,” he said. “Story I covered. But they never used it. This is someone else’s write-up, for the Express and Star.”

“What a tragic business. Was it someone you knew?”

Paul shook his head. “No, I just investigated it. Didn’t find out any more than this reporter. Happens all the time, you know. Unwanted pregnancies, botched abortions, even this.” He swallowed his gin before too much of the ice could melt into it.

Carol shrugged. “Funny thing to keep.” She folded up the page, then absentmindedly tore it into four pieces. “Sorry, did you want it?”

Paul shook his head. He suppressed the impulse to shout, Fuck. What did you do that for? “How’s Dawn?” he asked as the gin started to blacken his nerves. He felt like a photograph left too long in developing fluid.

“Shitting and vomiting,” Carol said. “But nothing dangerous, no blood. The doctor says she’ll be okay in three or four days. She needs to rest as much as possible. Paul, I found something else. In an envelope, in your desk. I’ve thrown them away.”

“What were you looking there for?”

“Paul… You don’t use condoms with me. On the rare occasions that we have sex, you don’t use them. Who are they for?”

“Keep your voice down. Stella will hear you.” Paul finished his drink. Carol was still staring at him. “All right,” he said. “I fuck the office boy in my lunch breaks.”

“Was it that Alison Simmons?”

“And coffee breaks.”

“Did you forget once? Was that why…”

“Shut your face.” Paul stood up. With one hand, he mimed the closing of a mouth. Then he stared at his fist, remembering the fly and its thin blood. Thinner than water. He felt himself seize up. It never happened, he told himself. Only on the surface, the acts, the facts, the story. It was never real inside me.

Was it real inside her? “Leave me alone,” he said quietly. Carol went upstairs. She was good like that sometimes. Paul looked around the kitchen. The wall was flecked with damp; it needed repainting. Perhaps he’d do it soon, and show he was a good family man. Only squatters let the places they lived in fall apart. It was growing dark outside. Paul carried on drinking. He heard Carol putting Stella to bed, heard Dawn saying good night. He’d seen her upstairs an hour before, heading for the toilet. She looked pale and dark-eyed, like a figure from a Munch engraving.

When Paul went up to bed, the house was still. Carol was waiting for him. “Sorry,” he said, as if that could atone for all past, present and future offenses. In the dark, she tried to caress him. “Sorry,” he said again, this time meaning: It’s the drink. They both knew it wasn’t only the gin. He’d been impotent with Carol ever since… well, since Alison died. He knew Carol would have connected the times when she saw the newspaper cutting. She always kept diaries and calendars. Why did she try to make love to him even when they’d had a row? Because she had no other source of comfort, Paul thought; he felt paralyzed with guilt. Carol lay still, holding him tight against her. He tried to will some of his alcoholic calm into her taut muscles. After a few minutes, she turned over and went to sleep, curled inward on herself.

The next morning, Paul visited the canal district for the first time. It was another hot, bright day; the city center was choked with traffic. Young army recruits hung around the shopping precincts, their faces marked by the sun with a look of perpetual embarrassment. The shop windows were like dusty mirrors. Days like this numbed your vision, so you couldn’t see properly in the shade. Paul considered going into the office to catch up with some routine subbing and admin work for next Sunday’s issue of the Messenger. But instead, he caught the bus out toward West Bromwich. It took him past the house on the Hagley Road where Alison had lived. Further north, Smethwick was a gray chessboard of terraces and factory walls, like an open-plan prison. From a hilltop, Paul could see the glint of water in the reservoir’s drying socket.

What was he looking for? Where he got off the bus, the street was empty. He walked through a circular shopping precinct, where only a few small offices were open. The shops themselves, including a bank, were boarded up, the boards sprayed with messages that overlaid each other into meaninglessness, like voices in a crowded place. This place felt crowded even though nobody was around. In the middle of the precinct, a hot-food kiosk had been literally plated with armor. On three sides, tower blocks reared up against the sky; their balconies overlooked the courtyard where Paul was standing. Each story was about eight feet deep. Looking upward, he had a terrible sense of the ground being hollow.

Farther away from the main road, the streets were lined with factory walls; rusty steel hooks and coils of barbed wire protected the interior. One large building had been demolished, leaving only a roofless square of gray wall around a salvage dump. The unreal blue of the sky framed each building. Then, suddenly, he was walking past a series of little housing projects, each one a flattened U-shape around a gravel courtyard. They couldn’t date back any farther than the nineteen-nineties, but already their model village effect was threadbare. Most of the flats were boarded up; in some cases, blankets or pieces of tarpaulin were nailed across the window frames. Doorways were padlocked and chained, but not sealed up. The courtyards and the entry passages between buildings were littered with black plastic bags and crates full of refuse. A few rusty shells of cars perched in driveways, without wheels. On a hilltop, a children’s playground contained various elaborate climbing frames, but no children.

Paul walked on for some time before he saw anyone. It was too hot for activity. The older part of the district was less visibly derelict than the estates; perhaps the tenants were harder to dislodge. Tower blocks, crusted with scaffolding like insects shedding their skins, broke up the pattern of terraced houses. Rubbish was everywhere—in gutters, beside doorsteps, blocking the entries to the alleyways—but it was too dry to smell really bad. A frail-looking dog clawed slowly at a heap of refuse bags; a few gnats flickered above the animal’s head like a heat-haze. Beyond, Paul could see a man crouching in the alley. At the sight of him, the other backed away and was lost in the shadows. Paul had a momentary sensation of being the hunter. Reporters were supposed to be witnesses; but forget that for the time being. If he didn’t do something, there might not be much to witness.

The alley was empty. They always kept themselves hidden. That was how they got away with it. At the far end, the boarding of windows in the terraced houses suggested occupation: it had been done clumsily, with odd pieces of broken blank. Pieces of black cloth were nailed to several of the boards, like a torn flag. It was evidently some kind of sub-community effort. The houses were about ten feet wide; Paul wondered who could have lived there in the first place. A gap between two houses looked like another alley, but turned out to be the bridge over a canal. Even from this distance, the water stank. Gnats made the warm air shiver. Paul bit his lip. If he vomited here, what could he rinse his mouth with? He watched a crow flap up from underneath the bridge, carrying a piece of refuse in its beak. Water dripped across the bright pavement. Within minutes, as Paul stared at the road, the splashes dried to faint red smears.

When Paul was six years old, his parents had taken him to the Welsh coast for a fortnight in the summer. That was when he’d started learning to swim. One of the days, they were walking inland across the fields. Paul had seen a sheep fence made of barbed wire, with tufts of wool hanging from it. Some of the wool was red. His mother had said it was the dye that farmers used to mark their own sheep. She’d also told him that taking communion in church meant drinking the blood of Christ. Paul stared at the sky. The sky stared back at him. It must be a stray dog in the canal. There were packs of dogs roaming around down there. It wasn’t courage that made him find the stone steps at the side of the bridge. It was something he didn’t have a name for.

The walls of the bridge were crusted with whitish deposits of lime. The water level was several feet below the towpath. Heaped in the water, not floating but piled on top of each other, were at least twenty human bodies. Some of them were too small to be adult. Though discolored and slightly swollen with water, they could not have been there long. Birds or rats had torn pieces off them, but Paul could see the marks of rifle bullets in their heads and bodies. Beyond the bridge, trails of blood had dried and blackened like tar. The only sound Paul could hear was the droning of flies, the same sound that had been in his head for weeks.




It wasn’t water flowing across his face. It was light. Paul woke up in a painful shudder that meant he’d lost whatever he’d been dreaming. He forced his eyes to stay open. The edges of red clouds were bleached by the sun. He must have passed out last night and forgotten to shut the curtains. He was sleeping in the spare bedroom now, which was Carol’s idea but suited him okay. Stella was with Carol, and Dawn was still recovering. But they were not foremost in Paul’s thoughts at the moment. He had an hour before he needed to go into work. It was Friday, the third day since his visit to the canal district.

Kevin’s reaction had upset him, but he was getting used to it now. The Messenger’s editor had listened to Paul’s story in silence, then told him to get on with the sub-editing for the next issue. “Remember what I said, Paul? The city needs an answer to this problem. If the army boys are sorting it out in their own way, all well and good.” He took a deep breath and looked straight at Paul, straight through the back of his head at the photographs and documents on the far wall. “You have to consider the effect of what gets printed. It’s for the benefit of the community. The real people of the city.”

Paul nodded and stood up; Kevin saw his hands shake. “Don’t go back there,” he said. “And get your drinking under control, unless you want to end up on the street.” It didn’t matter now, Paul realized. Human life was only the surface of things. As always in a crisis, faith comforted him and helped him to accept the way things had to be. With a strange sense of detachment, he wondered about the future: the lives of his children, his grandchildren. What memories would Dawn and Stella have of him? For a moment he felt cold. They’d heard him and Carol screaming at each other in the night, so many times. It was unbelievable, the things they’d come out with. But his parents had been just the same. Had that affected him?

Still feeling unreal, he got up to go to the bathroom. The frosted glass above the washbasin trapped a layer of pinkish light, like the skin of an angel. He ran lukewarm water into the basin, while his reflection in the mirror ignored him. The inside of his mouth was coated with the taste of alcohol; he could feel it in his gut, cold like silver. He listened to the sound of his own breathing. He needed to piss, but he’d have to wait until his prick went down. What had he been dreaming about? Paul waited for a long time before touching the water in the basin. He was afraid to break its surface. In the end he washed with his eyes shut, and cut himself shaving.

As he dressed and left for work, Paul kept thinking of Alison. She wasn’t the first mistress he’d had, but she was the first who’d threatened his marriage. For Paul, these affairs were a kind of escape. He didn’t allow them to become real. It was the sense of danger that turned him on. He suspected that, without Carol to go back to, he wouldn’t have bothered with any of them. Alison had seemed just his type. She was young and easily controlled, and she drank even more than Paul did. He saw her once or twice a week, always parking his car some distance from the house where she lodged.

It had gone on for nearly a year. There was something in Alison he’d never found before, and couldn’t put into words. She came from the coast—the Isle of Wight—and city life was strange to her. She sometimes talked about swimming in the sea, the freedom and wildness of it. That had been the only good thing about her childhood. She’d left home at fifteen, gone to London, then drifted up into the Midlands like so many others. Her room was full of shells and flowers and old records; having developed a catlike adaptation to confined spaces, she didn’t like to go out. She had a good voice, but Paul didn’t like to hear her sing; it frightened him, for some reason. What did it mean to want what you were most afraid of? Or to fear what you most wanted?

He’d left Alison when she’d refused to have an abortion. It wouldn’t have been the first time for her, so Paul had felt justified in taking a firm stand. She’d asked him to divorce Carol, and he’d explained to her that divorce was wrong, and abandoning your family was more so. He shouldn’t even have had to explain these things to Alison. She’d called him a two-faced bastard, and that had been the end of it. He’d stopped calling on her, and was relieved when she didn’t try to find him. Months later he’d come across the story of her death, while flicking through a day-old copy of a rival newspaper on the bus. Alison’s landlord had broken her door down and found her dead from an overdose of sleeping pills. She was six months pregnant. The fetus inside her had died at the same time.

This morning, Paul felt as though he were committed to her. He felt displaced from his former life. Was that because of the trouble in his marriage, or the trouble in his job? Or the drink, which was having the same effect on both? Getting drunk was a way of remembering Alison, as well as of returning to his own childhood. Of course, getting drunk didn’t make you like a child; it just made you feel that you were. The bus into town was packed with fresh-faced office workers, just the wrong side of a nine o’clock start. He told himself he’d have the car back soon. It was only a three-month ban: clumsy driving, slightly over the limit; nobody had been hurt.

The brilliant sunlight shadowed him from New Street to the Messenger’s offices in Hockley. It glittered from car roofs and scaffolding and broken glass. The roadway between Snow Hill and the old Hockley flyover was all elevated above ground level. If you looked at the advertisement boards, you could forget where you were.

Inside his office, Paul felt more secure. His computer terminal was as reassuring as a piano, and much quieter. He edited on-screen, not bothering to mark corrections on a printout beforehand. The added eyestrain was compensated by the sense of potency. Suddenly he wished his own life story were on the screen. Then every morning, he could retrieve himself; correct himself; justify himself; save himself. The pun reminded him of something he couldn’t quite bring to mind. There was the usual scattering of civic events to deal with. Another story about the new science exhibition centre; and one about the new sports complex, designed with half an eye on some future Olympian Games. A handful of robbery, violence and accident stories; still nothing about the canal district.

He spoke to Kevin at lunchtime. The editor was looking tense and on edge, which struck Paul as a good sign. “Are you still ignoring what happened?” he asked. On a better day, Kevin might have pretended not to understand him. But he stared hard at Paul, then shook his head.

“The situation seems to be under control,” he said. “We don’t want to stir up public interest in the area. Or innocent people will get hurt. It’s not as though people don’t know what’s going on. But it’s in the sub-citizens’ interests to keep things quiet. Preserve calm. Most of them will be transported out of the districts where these communities are. Dispersed or jailed. The only alternative is what you saw. It’s got to happen, one way or the other.” He walked away before Paul could interpret the unease in his face.

For the next hour, Paul sat in the canteen and watched the reporters and ad men and typists come and go. Who could he talk to that might understand? The faces of the young men reminded him of the army recruits he’d seen in the city center on Tuesday. It was still easy for him to see the young as perfect versions, originals of which he was a defective offprint. But he knew from experience, they were bastards in embryo. Their apparent perfection was just immaturity. He’d never trusted men. Or women. Was that because he didn’t trust himself? He thought about Carol, and knew he’d have to patch things up this weekend. The decision gave him no comfort.

Quite suddenly, with no external jog to his memory, he knew what the joke about saving himself had reminded him of. It was a line of poetry—some Irish poet from the late twentieth century that his mother had liked. Seamus Heaney, that was it:

Where to be saved you only must save face.

And whatever you say, you say nothing.

In the afternoon, Paul started to fall asleep at his desk. The pile of typescripts under his hands made him dream about a bundle of newspaper. Three old women were sitting in a brick-walled alley somewhere beyond reach of the sun; they were passing the bundle back and forth between them. Each tore away a layer and passed on the rest of it, like a party game. Paul could still hear the chatter of printers from the office, but he refused to open his eyes. There was nothing inside the bundle, unless it was too dry and shrunken to tell apart from the last twisted-up pages, gray with newsprint. The wrinkled hands of the old women were covered with stories. Paul woke with a shock that felt like a magnesium flare in his head. He arranged the sheets on his desk into a logical order, scrambled them and rearranged them. How long could it be before someone noticed he’d done nothing?

Somehow he got through the bulk of work on his desk, half-aware of errors he was letting through or even creating. What did anyone care? If they were comfortable with lies, it was screamingly absurd for them to worry about spelling and punctuation. He could always give it a final check tomorrow morning. At five o’clock Paul unplugged his computer. Instead of catching the bus into town, he walked into the nearest pub. The beer was tepid and had a stiff head he could have shaved with. He drank three pints in half an hour. When he went to piss, the water streaming down the sides of the urinal paralyzed him; he couldn’t look away.

The bus that took him to the canal district went by a different route from the one he’d caught on Tuesday. Paul didn’t recognize the streets, until he saw the elevated concrete circle of the shopping precinct, with the blocks of flats built around its edge. He got off and stood holding onto the white wall that fronted the expressway, telling himself the buildings weren’t really tilted. A white-haired alcoholic in a blue anorak knelt on the pavement, singing to himself. In the precinct, an Alsatian was trying to push through the jagged gap a brick had left in a shop window. Paul could hear pieces of glass fall and smash as the dog broke through. There was nobody else in sight, and no traffic on the road.

It took Paul a long time to find the canal bridge among the terraces, and even then he wasn’t sure it was the same one. The canal was stagnant, and shapeless hulks of furniture or tree branches littered its surface; but there was no trace of what he’d seen three days before. He made his way cautiously along the canal towpath toward the next bridge. The buildings overhead became taller, factories rather than houses. He had an overwhelming sense of neglect and disuse—of an old network whose purpose was hardly remembered, submerged beneath the new roads and concrete walkways. An old word for canal was cut, he’d read somewhere. It was supposed to be a part of local dialect. The cut; the missing frame; the part of the story condemned to silence.

An hour later, he still hadn’t found any evidence of either life or death along the canal. Soon he’d have to give up and find his way back to the city center. But he was completely lost now. There were no streets within sight of the towpath: only a blank factory wall, a scrap yard, a grassy embankment. Some goods carriages stood empty on a rusty track. The sun was low in the sky ahead, its reddish beams dividing the close air into layers. Paul’s eyes were starting to sting and blur. Even when he thought his inability to cry would make him go blind, there was nothing he could do. The accumulated dirt on the walls and stone bridges seemed to bring the night closer. Not far ahead, the view disappeared into the mouth of a tunnel. Perhaps he could rest in there, shielded from the glare of the sun. But he was still in the open air when the tunnel bit him.

Pain turned the world inside-out. There was stone inside him, and flesh on the path. He was staring down into a cloudless sky, at the black afterimage of the sun. Why did he have to keep waking up like this? Then he looked at himself and thought: Jesus wept. It was some kind of wire snare, a net with hooks. Had he walked into a tripwire? The pain was receding now; it was only a background noise. Lifting himself on one arm, he realized the snare had almost missed him. Hooks had scored his chest and belly on the left side, almost removing his shirt. More hooks were embedded in his left arm; but he couldn’t feel them.

Fucking bastards. Was it a gypsy trap for stray dogs? Or an army trap for vagrants? Very slowly, Paul sat up and looked around him. There was nobody within sight. In the tunnel, something dark was floating on the water; a canal barge, he realized, moored to the bank. He looked up at the buildings above the towpath. They might be houses, but he couldn’t see them properly. Fuck it. He called out “Help!” The sound was absurdly thin, a child’s voice. One by one, he detached the remaining hooks from the flesh of his arm.

There might be someone aboard the barge. Paul walked under the bridge, his arms locked together in a cradle of whole and injured flesh. The feeling was gone from the left side of his body. Flanking the tunnel on either side was a series of brick-lined alcoves that reminded him of a museum gallery. There were images on the walls, crusts of lichen or chemical waste that absorbed moisture from the air. The barge seemed to be pulling slowly away from him. As he got closer to it, he could see that the black wood of its hulk was rotten and streaked with lime. Someone was sitting on its roof, facing him; so still, he thought she must be dead. Then she leaned forward and touched his face. The fingers were soft and cool. Her other arm was holding a child, pressed close to her, its head in the hollow of her throat. The child too was facing him. It had no mouth.

Someone moved behind him. Paul turned and saw thin figures emerging from the alcoves, on both sides of the tunnel. One of the canal people stepped closer and touched Paul’s injured arm. It was still bleeding, but the fluid that ran from it wasn’t blood. Paul could see the blue of his own tattered shirt; and flowing from the wounds in his arm, a dirty water that smelt like the canal. The man behind him ripped the sleeve from his own shirt, then tied it around Paul’s arm. The flow stopped, but the numbness remained. Paul looked back at the face of the child. Other people were drawing closer around him. He wanted to tell them that he didn’t need to be rescued, that this was where he belonged. But he couldn’t speak. They seemed to understand in any case. Some of them helped him to climb aboard the barge. When the barge started to move, Paul realized the sunlight had deceived him. This wasn’t a tunnel; nor, strictly speaking, a canal.




MEMENTO MORI

by Scott Thomas







Scott Thomas appears in The Year’s Best Horror Stories for the first time, along with his brother Jeffrey, whom you’ll encounter later in this book. I can’t improve on Scott’s letter, so I’ll give it verbatim:

“I was born in Marlboro, MA, November 15, 1959 the very day the Clutters were killed in Kansas, spawning Capote’s In Cold Blood.

“I diversify my creative energies submitting stories, art, poetry and articles to both horror and pagan publications. I’ve been practicing witchcraft since 1983 and have studied British prehistory, magic herbalism, and ghosts. I’ve been creatively influenced by the likes of my brother Jeffrey, the Scottish band Robin Williamson, M.R. James, Martin Scorsese, and British folklore. Other folks who’ve done powerful things with words and thoughts include Elvis Costello, Robert Service, Thomas Hardy, and Mr. Lovecraft.

“There have been numerous ghostly episodes in the quaint old New England house where I live with a lady astrologer and six cats. Speaking of haunted places—I worked in a spooked plastics factory for ten years. I’ve also worked as a golf course greenskeeper and presently work for a local printing company.

“In ‘Memento Mori’ I was able to indulge two of my strongest passions: autumn and cemeteries. Much of the story is set in actual places in and around my beloved town of Westborough, MA.”





“A skull with wings!” Rachel called out.

Aunt Maura poked up from behind a nearby tombstone and rushed over. She nodded approvingly, her eyes grinning.

“It’s beautiful,” the younger woman said. She dipped her knees into the morning dew and tore a sheet from a large roll of paper. Careful hands pressed the paper over the relief carving, and fastened it with masking tape. She chose a black bar of wax from a portable art box and began rubbing.

“What’s the year?” Maura asked.

“I can’t tell, it’s too worn. Seventeen something.”

The skull seemed to emerge from the paper as the wax rasped back and forth—gray at first—then darker. Rachel worked intently, leaning close with squinted eyes, biting her lower lip.

For the past three Saturdays, Maura and her niece had ventured out in search of long-forgotten burial grounds such as this. “Grave-robbing missions,” Aunt Maura joked fondly.

Winding New England back roads, dense with autumn colors, led them to solemn huddles of leaning slate—overgrown and secretive—each with the promise of treasures, like the skull carving. Though their friends teased them about their ‘morbid’ excursions, their mutual love of history and folk art compelled them like a hunger.

Maura watched her niece at work for several minutes before wandering off. The stillness of the place was calming. Would the Puritan settlers who created this resting ground have shared her friends’ opinions about her interest? Would they, too, have joked mockingly? Perhaps they had superstitiously avoided coming to these places except when there were dead to bury. She wondered. It wasn’t so much a mood of death which she sought from the old cemeteries; she was here to get a feel for the lives of her Colonial ancestors. The symbols, the names, the epitaphs spoke of more than an end to life.

Leaves crackled dryly beneath her steps as acorns pattered sporadically in the surrounding woods. An occasional squirrel darted, brief and gray. Rattlesnake whispers of soon-to-fall leaves rode gently on the sun-warmed air, there was still a snap of chill in the breeze.

The middle-aged woman neared the edge of the graveyard where the grinning giant’s teeth of a crumbling stone wall attempted to hold back the encroaching forest. She noticed a winged cherub on one tilting stone and knelt to read the inscription:

In memory of Mary Warren, beloved wife of Henry. February fourteenth, seventeen seventy-two. Age fifty-five years. Upton, Massachusetts.

Below this information, caked with fingerprints of yellow-green lichen read an unusual epitaph:

Dearest friends, weep for me not, when my cold grave you view and see. As you are now, so once was I. Prepare for death, for you must die.

A large smile came to Maura’s face, her eyes crinkling with excitement. She had variations of this verse in books about gravestones and their sayings, but this was her first personal encounter. Deft hands pulled a piece of paper from a roll. She smoothed it carefully over the impassive winged face…

Rachel rose with a sigh and smoothed back her red hair. She scanned the little graveyard for her companion. Nothing but leaning stones and the trembling shadows of breeze-inspired trees. No Maura.

“Auntie?”

Rachel set down her completed rubbing and moved off through the stones. Salmon-colored leaves crunched while those clinging on a nearby tree fluttered like nervous insect wings.

“Auntie?”

No reply. The edge of the cemetery was close now. Something white suddenly fluttered out from behind a stone and pressed against her legs. Rachel gave a startled gasp, but looking down, saw it only to be a piece of rubbing paper. Then she noticed her aunt’s prone form poking out from behind the grave.

“Oh, Christ! Auntie?”

Heart pounding, Rachel ran over to where the older woman lay. Maura’s eyes and mouth were open, impassive, as though she were stunned. He complexion was no more healthy than that of the silently watching gray cherub.

“Auntie Maura! Auntie… Oh God, no!”

She bent down. Maura’s head flopped listlessly as Rachel shook her by the shoulders. Maura was dead.

It was less than an afterthought, more of a chance gesture when Rachel, in the midst of sobbing, glanced down at the crumbled rubbing Maura had been doing. The stoic cherub was there, and then were words below it, but larger than the finely chiseled script on the stone. They looked as if someone had scrawled them by hand.

Rachel shuddered. The paper read: Maura—help! My children are burning! They are dying!




Another busy day in Westborough. Neatly dressed professionals clogged the center of the once-small town with shiny compact cars. Rachel, wearing a heavy sweater and fluid white skirt, walked from her apartment on South Street to the old building with the sign that read: Past Presents: Antiques, Crafts, and Gifts.

The air inside was filled with scented candles and potpourri. Chairs, tables, spinning wheels, and other expensive clutter took up the major part of the floor. Off to the sides there were displays of candle holders, dolls, pottery, dried flower arrangements, and wreaths of herbs and grapevines. One wall formed an upright cemetery of framed rubbings. Death’s heads and cherubs stared dully, some blurred ghostly by the passage of time and the elements. There were samples of the urn and willow motif, one with a bird, and another of a sailing ship.

Rachel alone now ran the shop she and her aunt had started a year earlier. It wasn’t the same. The antiques seemed saturated with loneliness, the rubbings more dour-faced. Hours passed more slowly.

Sleigh bells on the door rang as a woman in bland business garb came in, hastily leading a child by the hand. Her eyes passed unabsorbingly over the merchandise and fixed on Rachel.

“Can you tell me where Tech-Supply is?”

Rachel smiled politely and pointed toward the front window. “Right across the rotary. On the other side.”

“Thanks.”

The woman yanked her daughter along as she made for the door.

“Mommy—look.” She had spotted the rubbings. “Those are creepy!”

The door banged, leaving the scent of the woman’s synthetic-smelling perfume to hold Rachel’s stomach in an acrid vice.

“Have a nice day,” Rachel said to the door.

She looked over at the grave art. Creepy the little girl had said. Rachel thought so, too, as a child. Then she came to appreciate the stones as relics of ancient American art. Now the blinkless dull eyes, captured there in wax, gave her a feeling that could be accurately labeled as creepy.




It was folded up in the bottom drawer of the counter where the cash register sat. She had tried to forget it, tried not to contemplate it. Trembling fingers eased the drawer open, paused, then lifted it out and gently unfolded it.

Maura—help! My children are burning! They are dying! The words were still there, broken and pitted as if the wax had captured the nuances of aged carvings.

Had her aunt somehow written it in the delirium of her fatal stroke? Would she have had time? There was no way Rachel could be reading it wrong, and the moss on the epitaph could not be blamed for what seemed to be reproduced here. What other explanation could there be?

There were even less leaves on the trees now as Rachel drove through a tunnel of yellow-speckled branches. She passed a farm on the left, the vegetable stand with pumpkins heaped like orange cairns. A cornfield with a scarecrow like a skeletal rag-strewn puppet.

The trees closed in again as she sped past the entrance to the state forest. Farther; faster. There was no gate to announce the graveyard, not even a dirt path. She parked the car by the side of the road and climbed the slope through rasping leaves.

The grave was leaning, as though tired from so many years of standing. The dull stare of the winged head showed no recognition of the approaching woman. Rachel hesitated, all too conscious of the roll of rice paper in her hand. Curiosity overrode her fear.

She taped the thin sheet to the lichen-scabbed surface and a quivering hand moved the black wax over the surface. The relief of the cherub came through, and below that the name Mary Warren, followed by the date of her demise. But when Rachel worked the wax lower, over the cryptic epitaph, large printed letters showed.

Rachel!—it read—Help us!

The woman shrieked. Leaves shivered and danced as a gust of cool breeze whisked the paper away.

“My God—that can’t be! It can’t!”

She pulled off a fresh sheet of paper and repeated the process. This time letters spelled out: please help… I’m so very ill. Fever. Always dying…

Rachel tore off the paper, tossed it aside; didn’t bother taping the next on. The message continued: Rachel, help!

“Where are you? How… can I help?”

Another sheet of paper, more words emerged beneath the frantic strokes of wax:

Trapped here, we are… Forever dying. My children are burning! Help me, please!

“No, I’m going crazy. This can’t be real!” Rachel stammered aloud.

She found herself on her feet, running for her car.




Pine Grove Cemetery was sterile looking compared to the old Colonial burial yards. Modern graves were squat glossy marble things, their surrounding ornamental shrubs pruned, the grass short. Paved paths meandered through the rows.

A shrill cry came from abruptly stopped tires. Rachel sprang from the vehicle and ran to where a marker overlooked the dull sod of a fresh burial. The name Maura Gould was carved into glassy polished marble.

“This is insane,” Rachel muttered to herself, even as she ripped free a sheet from her paper tube and fished the rubbing wax from her denim shoulderbag. She moved the wax vigorously back and forth. Her mind was whirling. Had some latent psychic ability to communicate with the dead suddenly awakened in her? Had her preoccupation with the places of the dead tuned her into some world beyond?

She scrubbed so hard, the paper began to tear, yet all that showed was her aunt’s name and the dates of her birth and death.

A metallic whirring sound and peripheral motion made her turn to the nearby road. A young couple passed on ten speed bikes, both in black Spandex pants, and T-shirts of noxiously bright orange and green and small strapped-on plastic helmets. They looked at her as though she were an alien. Rachel pulled the paper free and crushed it into a ball. She leaned her head against the grave and sobbed.




The phone rang.

Rachel’s voice answered softly, “Hello?”

“Hi. I tried your house. Open late tonight, or what?”

It was Paul, a computer programmer from Southborough whom she’d been dating for several months.

“No, I’m just hanging around. Cleaning and stuff.”

“Ohhh. Well, hey, how ’bout goin’ out for a bite? You haven’t already eaten, I hope?”

“No. Ummm, I’m sorry, Paul, but I’m pretty tired tonight. Would tomorrow be okay?”

Disappointed sigh. Silence, then: “Yeah, okay. Talk to you later, then.”

“Bye.”

Rachel dropped the receiver into the cradle and sat back. An audience of flat wax faces watched her from the wall. She went through the drawers of her cashier’s counter in search of a flashlight and finally decided to take one of the lanterns that were for sale.




Animated leaves swam through the headlights. Broken pools of them sat here and there while others crawled about carried on the October wind. Rachel was so agitated that several times she nearly stomped on the brakes, mistaking the frolicking things for darting animals.

The road to the burial ground was long and, at this hour of the night, rarely traveled. She passed the farm, the pumpkin stacks now covered with dark tarps, the cornfield rushing along on her left, the scarecrow of crucified rags and straw.

A few of the headstones came into view as Rachel parked by the side of the road. She lit the lantern and gathered her art supplies. Outside it was cold enough to warrant a winter jacket. She would have liked to wear gloves, though they’d impede her.

Noisy leaves on the slope that led up from the road told of her coming, the heavy tree limbs above leaned down to listen. The lantern was not as direct as a flashlight would have been, its glow was soft and squirmed liquidlike over the stones that emerged from the darkness to greet her.

Mary Warren’s stone waited at the edge of the graveyard. Rachel forced herself near, holding the lantern out ahead of her, as if it might ward away the spectral forces. The flame shone weakly on the cherub’s inscrutable features.

Rachel set the lamp down and held the paper to the cool, hard slate.

“I… I’m back. Are you there?” The young woman’s voice strained.

She moved the wax across the paper.

Yes…

“What do you want?”

Rachel, help!

“Your children are burning, you said. But they aren’t dead?”

She was nearing the bottom of the paper. More letters appeared, as if scrawled into the stone and picked up by the wax. They read: Yes. A terrible fire. Dead, but forever here… forever dying!

Rachel shuddered. She replaced the paper.

“I don’t understand.”

Try other stones, the paper said.

Rachel turned to the nearest monument and rustled over to it. A plasma of bronze jelly squirmed on it, cast by the lantern. She held up a piece of paper to the surface.

“Is anyone there?”

Yes—Jonathan Cushing, here. I’m bleeding. Bleeding to death forever.

“Why? I don’t understand.”

The wax felt warm in the woman’s palm; she wiped hard against the slate.

This place—something here, in these stones, holds us here… forever dying!

“Dear God,” Rachel gasped. “What can I do?”

Break the stones…

Rachel thought of something. Quickly she turned back to the grave with the solemn winged face—the stone her aunt had been working on when she died, or was frightened to death.

“Auntie… are you there?”

Her heart drummed, the wax streaked, words showing through the dark.

Rachel, I’m here. My head hurts. Break the stones!

Rachel dropped the wax. She ran to the stone wall and tried to lift one of its components. Too heavy. Smaller stones rested at the base, semi-interred. She worked one loose, the smell of autumn soil thick, a centipede pouring like a bony ring across a finger. Back to the slates; she heaved the thing.

There was a loud crack. The top of the slate fell, the cherub split. Rachel grunted, again tossed the stone. The other grave fell backward and broke. She continued, feverish now, smashing with passion. Headlights swept past, blinding her for a moment. They must have seen! She didn’t care.

She was panting, sweating in her heavy winter coat. Most of the slabs had been downed or broken to some extent. Rachel fell to her knees, dizzy from exertion. She would rest a moment, then finish.

A stone to the right of her bore a grim-faced male with wings for ears. In the dim light, through her lightheadedness, Rachel watched as a smoky face seeped out through the solid one.

“Oh, my God!”

She turned; the woods stretched off behind her with three silhouetted graves in between. A dark figure moved. It was tall, stepping slowly without sound up the embankment.

Rachel got to her feet and stared. Mist, motion—something at the base of one of the shattered tombstones. Watery, details coming into focus. A face of squirming dust motes, burial clothes, and air smearing hands.

“Oh… oh, Christ!”

More and more of them, rising up, moving toward her. A shadowy man, an old woman hobbling, bearing a great toothless grin, a moon-pale little boy with arms offering a hug. There! Aunt Maura, her eyes grinning with gratitude—visible from the waist up, moving through the grass as if wading through a swamp.

It was too much. Rachel turned to run. Her feet on night moistened leaves—she slipped, her weight hitting hard against the base of one of the tall stones.




The remaining graves were illuminated by momentary flashes of blue light. The police car was parked behind Rachel’s and two officers stood amidst the destruction. They’d arrived too late to witness the misty evacuation of freed souls. They did, however find the vandal a passing motorist had reported. In her rampage, she had foolishly tripped over one of the leaning slates, which now lay across her chest.

One of the men shined a flashlight down into her face. The eyes were open, the mouth slack and ajar. Like the stone death’s head on the grave that she wore, she did not blink.




THE BLITZ SPIRIT

by Kim Newman







Born in London in 1959, Newman was brought up in the West Country, educated at the University of Sussex, and now lives in Crouch End. A multitalented writer, Kim Newman has risen to become one of England’s main forces in modern horror. As to the background of “The Blitz Spirit,” Newman explains:

“This was written for The Time Out Book of London Short Stories. London, where I was born but did not grow up and where I live, is a city which contains overlapping layers of its own past, like a wall that has been fly-posted and stripped so many times that a crazy collage emerges. When I wrote the story, London was in the middle of another bombing campaign, a major exhibition devoted to WWII and a revived 1940s musical was playing in the West End. Subsequently, the British fascist party has had a minor election victory, I’ve been woken up by the bold Fenian men blowing up the YMCA in Crouch End and Tory politicians keep harping on about the good old days.

“My most recent novels are Anno Dracula, which should be out in the US in paperback when the collection hits, and The Quorum, a neo-mainstream Faust story in which nobody dies. I’ve got two collections (The Original Dr. Shade, Famous Monsters) coming, and I’m responsible for the creation of Great Britain’s first television horror host, Dr. Terror. I’m still a film critic and broadcaster. Currently I’m working on a sequel to Anno Dracula set during World War One, provisionally entitled The Bloody Red Baron.”





The Shelter was already crowded when he arrived. A wedge of queue stood topside. Men in hats and wideshouldered double-breasteds and women with Cellophane raincoats over Austerity creations clustered and craned around the entrance. The ARP man on the door lifted the red velvet rope for Frankham without checking his clipboard. The queue muttered, but he gave a familiar wave. Most of the civvies recognized him. They wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for his write-ups.

A barrage balloon caught the searchlight overhead, a low-lying and heavy cloud in December skies. From the depths, band music poured. Three shrills swung “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.” He stood alone in the bare cage-lift as it descended. He was always given elbow room. It was a sign of respect.

Peter Frankham saw himself in the burnished metal of the cage, looking Nigel Patrick-ish, with thin ’tache and slouch hat, gabardine draped over his shoulders, double length of watch-chain in his waistcoat and ballooning bags. He’d had the look for three months and it wasn’t yet through.

The cage rattled open and a commissionaire let him into the Shelter proper.

“There was another bomb in Oxford Street,” someone said. “Shut down the tube for hours.”

“Don’t go on an’ on an’ on,” he said back.

The dance floor thronged. Surplus bods huddled in the dark by the walls, tucking into plates of snoek, drinking bombers. Noise was all around: chatter, swing, clatter, siren whines, shrills.

He had passed a stretch of rubble in Oxford Street. It might have been the His Master’s Voice shop. The wardens had it roped off and sludgy piles of debris gave off steam where fires had been put out. The whole street was blacked out, Christmas tat turned to sinister black shapes strung from lampposts.

Many in the crowd, men and women, wore uniform. Dancers had jackets undone, sweat-ringed as they jived and jitterbugged, knowing they could die any second. Chippies and touts worked the Shelter on a professional basis. Frankham could spot them a mile off. Time Out called him “Caesar of the Spivs.”

He had no business here. Once he had written a place up, everyone else would go and his actual attendance would be surplus to schedule. But he liked to make up inspections. Sometimes, he’d pick apart a hole he had built up. These were ephemeral times; nothing stood long. The music got faster.

The band—a young man in a flying helmet surrounded by his instrument panel, flicking switches—pin-balled through “Coming In On a Wing and a Prayer” and the three shrills were off, replaced by a geezer with a painted tie that hung to his knee, an hour-glass-shaped purple coat, and a cigar twice the size of the Old Man’s.

The dancers collapsed exhausted and crowds surged in to fill their space. The band went oom-pah and the geezer wheezed through impersonations of Benito and Adolf, topping off his sound-bite of an act with “Der Fuhrer’s Face.” The audience knew the routine, and joined in the chorus.

“When der Fuhrer says ‘We iss der Master Race,’

“We HEIL—”

An enormous collective oral wet fart resounded.

“HEIL—”

Again.

“Right in der Fuhrer’s face…”

The Shelter was on its last legs, Frankham thought. Retro was all very well, but it shaded too easily into camp.

He left without even sampling his complimentary drink. Outside, as the doors opened, an all-clear sounded.




About eleven, he stopped by Monty’s for a coffee-shock. He wrapped a five pound note in his ration coupon and got the real stuff. Black market, with five sugars. The brush-mustached orderly gave Frankham a smart salute and stomped off on a shrapnel-stiff leg.

“Bit of a prang last month,” he had explained as he plonked down Frankham’s mug, sloshing a bit too much in the saucer.

Monty’s was in the warrens of Soho, just across from the Windmill. From his place at the counter, Frankham could see the frontage. An audience disgorged from all exits, having just seen Tonight and Every Night. Many were whistling the hit, “Seeing It Through.” The revue was doing better business than Hello Playmates! at the Dominion. There was a quote from Frankham on the marquee: “It’s tickety-boo!”

A child-sized figure in a gas mask, trailing a filthy foot of grown-up coat, crept in behind a punter, and started rooting around in the neglected corners. The orderly gave an “Oi, you!” and shooed the creature out.

“Kids,” he said, “bless ’em.”

A professional foreigner was mouthing off at a corner table, surrounded by nodding acolytes as he dipped biscuits in his tea. He had a Viennese beard and a dubious accent.

“Looking backward is a comprehensible but perilous reaction to the chaos of the present,” Johnny Foreign declaimed. “Faced with the direst circumstances, it is sometimes natural to wish to return to a time when similar hardships were endured only to be overcome…”

Frankham couldn’t help but smile. Johnny Foreign was the spit and image of the sinister, sneaky figures on the framed posters behind the bar. CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES. LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS. A definite morale-breaker and no mistake.

A bald little man sidled up to Frankham at the counter and opened his ratty Bud Flanagan coat. His many inside pockets were distended with compact 78s and wire-tape cassettes.

“Slightly bomb-damaged stock,” he whispered out of a corner of his mouth. “Coupon or cash.”

He had all the sounds: George Formby, Hutch, Gracie Fields, Madonna’s Blitzkrieg, the Yank crooners, Hoagy.

Frankham waved the looter away. His wares still had gummy circles where price stickers had been. He went to tap Johnny Foreign’s table and made an exchange with one of the acolytes for an Artie Shaw bootleg.




A family of refugees was holding up foot traffic on Wardour Street. The police were checking papers with some trouble. None of the adults spoke any English, and a sullen, bone-weary schoolgirl was having to translate to her three apparent parents, converting terse British sentences into lengthy Mittel Europa circumlocutions.

The street was blocked off by a checkpoint. Frankham shivered in his gabardine and slipped on his phones, adjusting the wire cassette until swing plugged directly into his brain. The Glenn Miller remix fed his jumping synapses. Pennsylvania 6-5,000.

“Pass on, please,” said a constable, waving pedestrians by. Soldiers in berets that seemed black in the night shoved the refugees against a wall and patted their pockets for contraband. The Herald had run an expose, indicting bogus refugees as the worst of the black marketeers.

Somewhere, far away, perhaps across the river, was the crump of a big explosion. Another one.

Frankham strode on. He was behind schedule.




The War Room wasn’t as overpopulated as the Shelter. It was more expensive and coupons were short since the bank freeze. But after his write-up, it would be the Next Place.

Frankham sipped a reasonable cocktail and leant backward on the bar-rail with proprietorial insouciance. The dance floor was a map of the European theater. Hostesses with pointers shoved toy ships and model troop dispositions about. They wore khaki skirts and had their hair done up under peaked caps. They all had sex appeal in buckets.

The Old Man himself, or rather a working simulacrum thereof, sat on the bandstand, bulging his boiler suit like a giant baby, puffing on a jutting cigar, and sampling famous sayings into nonstop swing.

“We shall fight them… fight them… fight them…”

A black couple in US army uniform combined acrobatically, the man standing on Belgium and lifting his scissor-legged partner over his head, vaulting her from Normandy Beach to Peenemunde. Her skirts divided and closed like a snapping trap.

“… on the beaches… the beaches… the beaches…”

The dancers were probably with the management. They were too good to be civvies.

Everyone was given a cigar as they came in. Frankham had dumped his in a bucket of sand, but plenty lit up, adding to the smoke-filled room fug that hung under the ceiling, obscuring the lights.

The specialty dancers reached a frenzied climax, dry-humping and rolling across France like the Eighth Army. The Old Man turned a blubbery cartwheel on the bandstand, padding wriggling. Dresden exploded in a three-foot flame which whooshed around the legs of dancers, blowing up skirts to reveal suspenders and camiknickers. Harmless miniature fire-bursts sparked all around, singeing a few, producing squeals of drunken delight.

“Never before… I said before,” the Old Man rumbled like a public school Foghorn Leghorn. “In the field of human conf… I said human conflict, has so much, and I mean sooooo much, been owed…”

In a sense, Frankham reflected, it was all owed to him.




Frankham had seen it coming a year or so back, when the first big-band tracks leaked into the clubs just as the PM was denying plans had been laid to reintroduce rationing. He had written about it in cutting-edge ’zines, then the overground press. The Blitz Spirit was returning in style. When the Austerity line of fashions hit shops just as the bombing campaign shifted from public transport to department store, the battle to stay in fashion racked up its first casualties and more eager recruits enlisted. “Theme Museums” offering realistic simulacra of the darkest hours opened, bombarding the civvies with special effects. Hair salons became barbers’ shops, and stylists became skilled in straight-razoring ’tachs to pencil lines. De Havilland sound systems swept from the East End into the city, reproducing stuttering swing and syrup sentiment. The British film industry, with Ministry of Information funding, turned out cheap but successful remakes of: The Foreman Went to France, One of Our Planes is Missing, and The Goose Steps Out. When the BBC repeated ’Allo ’Allo and Dad’s Army to higher viewing figures than the soaps, bombs fell on Albert Square and Brookside Close in retaliation, Euro-talks in Hamburg ground to an unresolvable deadlock, with ambassadors constantly on the point of recall. The spiv look alternated with the uniform style and there was much confusion over just who was entitled to wear British Army combat fatigues. Every West End theater had its wartime revue running; Andrew Lloyd Webber turned the Colditz story into a musical smash while Cameron Mackintosh produced Every Night Something Awful. Frankham had already signed for a coffee-table book on the movement. It was to be called The Finest Hour.




As he emerged into Cavendish Square, a knot of SS skins were being turned away from the War Room. The skinhead Gruppenfuhrer spat abuse at the Tommy on the door, biting down on harsh German phrases like cyanide-filled teeth. The Tommy stood his ground.

There’d been a brief shooting war on Remembrance Sunday, Nouveau Nazis skirmishing with flight-uniformed young men who called themselves the Few. It had been blown up in the papers, but the factions had chased each other up and down Charing Cross Road and St Martin’s Lane, trading wild shots and smashing windows.

It was hard to get a cab. Frankham ambled along Margaret Street toward Regent Street and found a corner he could hail from. Standing on the pavement, he was aware of shapes crouched in the alley behind. Three sexless figures lay, their lower bodies swaddled in dirty sleeping-bags. Blank insectile eyes stood out in black-snouted faces. Gas masks.

There was a rush of noise and a whisk of air and Frankham dropped to the ground. Then came the flash and a scatter of hot ashes.

It had been close, maybe a street away. He turned and stood, and saw thin but giant flames shooting up above All Souls, Langham Place, and Broadcasting House. That one must have been an incendiary. It had fallen somewhere up on Great Portland Street, near the Post Office.

Fire-engines clanked and people were running toward and away from the explosion. Just standing, he was jostled. He patted the dust from his gabardine and stung his palm on a hot spark.

“… mumble, mumble,” said a gas mask.

“Pardon?” he said involuntarily.

“Mustn’t grumble,” the gas mask repeated.

“Worse things happen at sea,” another mask confirmed.




In the Troy Club, a Boffin, hand fused with a tumbler of Glenfiddich, tried to explain the nature of ghosts and time.

“… a collective wish can summon aspects of the past, invoke them if you will, actually bring into being objects or persons long gone…”

Frankham ignored the bespectacled loon and ordered a stiffish Gin and It. From the barman, who had patent-leather hair, hooded eyes, and a white dinner-jacket.

“Close scrape, I’ve just had,” he said.

“If it’s got your name on it, not much you can do, sir.”

Frankham threw the drink at the back of his throat. The stinging behind his eyes calmed him.

“Shook me up, I must say.”

The Troy always had the wireless on. A clubman spun the dial on the waist-high laminated cabinet, trying to find ITMA. He could only get purred news announcements about the latest raids and spun on at random. The wireless coughed out a sample of ranting Adolf, passed John Peel introducing Ambrose, then scratched into “The Lambeth Walk.”

“Bloody bad show, this,” snorted a Blimp who was having his ear bent by the Boffin. “Young turks have done for us well and proper. Too many green hands on the tiller, you know. All the good men pensioned off and put out to pasture.”

An airman, barely old enough to raise a ’tache, drank quietly and seriously at the bar, ignoring the Blimp and the Boffin. His hands were shaking almost unnoticeably.

“I should be up there,” he said, thumbing toward the ceiling. “I was due aloft tonight, but they canceled the scramble. Bomb or something. Fifth columnists, they say.”

“Very nasty business, sir,” said the barman. “The enemy within.”

“It’s deuced frustrating,” the airman declared, looking at his hands.” Just sitting here. Not being able to fight back. I’d just like to get one of the bogeys in my sights.”

“Not a man from the Last War on the General Staff,” blustered the Blimp. “All babies and boyos, with their computer planes and ballistic what-have-you. Don’t know the words to “God Save the King” and jitterbug to Yank bands on their leave…”

“As a society turns in on its insides,” said the Boffin, “loses forward momentum in nostalgia, the patterns of time and space itself may bend and bow, and even break. Nobody seems to notice…”

“Bloody Yanks. Bet they come in when it’s all over, grinning and dispensing chocolate and nylons like bloody manna from Heaven. Heaven, Arizona.”

“We continually try to rethink, to reimagine, the past. It’s possible that we actually unpick our destinies, change the situation. Look at all the books: Fatherland, When Adolf Came, SS/GB, The Man in the High Castle, The Sound of His Horn. We can wish it otherwise, and otherwise it could very well become…”

Frankham looked at his empty glass.

“Another drinkie, sir?” asked the barman.

Frankham ordered one and sprung for another for the airman. He was out of coupons but they knew him at the Troy. The barman could get anything, rationed or not, if slipped a little folded green.

“Think it’ll ever end?” the airman asked. “The War?”

“What War?” Frankham asked, missing something.

The airman didn’t answer, just drank. The Troy shuddered, framed pictures of Churchill and the Princesses rattling on the walls. A distant thunder shook the windows. A blind rolled up with a snap, and a voice from below shouted: “Put that light out.”




To judge from the streaks of angry red in the three o’clock skies, fires had spread. Narrow winding Hanway Street was unaffected by the actual bombardment, but the air was tangy with traces of smoke, the gutters heavy with the run-off from nearby fire-hoses.

Frankham and the airman, whose name was Somerton, had left the Boffin and the Blimp to their fractured conversation in the Club and ventured out in search of a livelier place. Somerton suggested a dancehall Frankham had already written up and written off. Since he was in a ginnily generous mood, he acceded. Who knows, the hole might be looking up. Everything comes around again eventually.

In the sky, dark shapes wheeled and swooped. Somerton looked up, almost with longing. There was a distorted burst of fire and a patter of spent shell-cases sounded a dozen yards away. After a fire-burst, something with a comet-tail of flame plunged downwards.

“Score one for some lucky blighter,” Somerton said.

Oxford Street was still barred to vehicle traffic, but gangs of soot-faced rubble-shifters were swarming over an extensive spill of debris. The fires were dying down and workmen were rooting through for hapless bods who might be trapped. A few disgraceful souls were getting in a spot of Christmas looting, pulling prizes—video recorders, television sets, gramophones—out of the wreckage. Most wore gas masks and were fast on their feet, no matter how weighted-down they were.

The plane, with swastika markings, had come down in the fountain at the base of Centerpoint. Its bent black fuselage was propped in the steaming shallow waters, hot chunks of wing-metal spread down into Charing Cross Road.

“A bogey,” spat Somerton. “Messerschmitt.”

Frankham’s head was hurting. Behind his skull, things were shifting. He needed more gins. Or fewer.

A souvenir stall opposite Centerpoint was squashed flat by a sheared-off aeroplane wheel. Union Jack bunting was turned to muddied scraps, and Cellophane-wrapped ARP helmets and beefeater models congealed into crinkling pools of melted plastic. A pair of Japanese tourists—enemy Axis aliens—snapped photographs of the stall from every angle, and were apprehended by a couple of constables. Frankham supposed they would be shot as spies.

Somerton wanted a look at the smashed plane. It was some new design, incorporating aerodynamic advances the Air Ministry was not yet aware of. In the empty cockpit, a bank of computer consoles shorted and sparked. The pilot must have hit the silk and come down somewhere nearby.

From the direction of Holborn came the sharp crack of gunfire. Rifle shots. Then, a burst of machine gun. Men in uniform trousers and braces broke away from the rescue gangs and seized weapons from a jeep stalled by Claude Gill’s.

Somerton crouched down, hauling Frankham out of the line of fire. At a run, Storm troopers charged down New Oxford Street and were greeted by accurate fire. Pinned down between the Tommies entrenched in the Virgin Megastore and an armed policeman who had been hiding in the entrance to Forbidden Planet, the Nazis were cut up properly. They hooted and heiled as bullets hit home.

The air was thick with flying lead. Frankham felt a stab in his upper arm and a hot damp seeping inside his jacket sleeve.

“Rats,” he said, “I’ve been shot.”

“So you have,” Somerton commented.

It was over swiftly. When the last goose-stepping goon was halted, knocked to his knees by a head-shot, some of the civvies gave out a cheer. In the open air, it sounded like the farting response in “Der Fuhrer’s Face.” Only the enemy seemed to have sustained casualties.

Frankham tried to get up and became awkwardly aware of the numbness in his upper chest.

“After you, Claude,” he said to Somerton, waving at the airman to stand.

“No,” said Somerton, helping Frankham up, “after you, Cecil.”

A Red Cross nurse came over and had a look at him. Her hair was pinned up under her cap. Frankham took a deep breath and it didn’t hurt too much. The nurse poked a finger into the blackened dotlike hole in his gabardine, and felt through his jacket and shirt.

“Just a graze, sweetheart,” he said.

“Keep smiling through,” she told him, and left. He glimpsed, in a shop window, a row of civilian casualties by Top Man, all with neatly-bloodied bandages around their heads.

“Proper little angel,” Somerton commented.

“Sometimes, I think it’s harder on the women,” Frankham said. “Yet they complain so little.”

Enough rubble had been shifted to let tanks into Oxford Street. Three of them had been held in reserve near Marble Arch and now they rumbled placidly toward the downed Messerschmitt. Frankham and Somerton gave the Victory-V sign as they passed, and a tank officer, bundled up in thick jumpers, returned the gesture.

“Makes a feller proud,” Somerton said. “To see everyone doing their bit.”




He woke up with a fearful gin head in some chippie’s single bed. He remembered a name—Dottie—and the dancehall, and vaguely supposed he was as far out as Camden or Islington. His arm was stiff and cold, and there was a shifting and uncomfortable girl next to him, face smeared with last night’s makeup.

He didn’t know what had happened to Somerton or to the girl—Hettie?—he had been dancing with.

Frankham rolled off the bed and hauled himself upright. Dottie—or was this Hettie?—was instantly relieved and filled out the space under the sheet, settling in for more sleep.

He dressed one-handed and managed everything but his cufflinks. The hole in his arm was a scabby red mark. He guessed there was still a lump of bullet inside him.

Outside, he didn’t recognize the street. Half the buildings in the immediate area had been bombed out, either last night or within the last month. One completely demolished site was flooded, a small reservoir in the city. The neat piles of fallen masonry were mainly bleached white as bones.

As he walked, his head hurt more and more. Around him, early-morning people busied themselves, whistling cheerfully as they worked, restoring recent damage. There weren’t many cars about, but a lot of people were nipping between the craters on bicycles.

There was a tube station nearby, the Angel. It was a part-time shelter, but the trains were running again. A policeman at the entrance was checking papers. Many of the bombed-out were being reassigned to vacant housing.

As he went down the escalator into the depths, Frankham passed framed advertisements for Ovaltine, a Googie Withers film, Lipton’s Tea, powdered eggs, Bovril. Every third advertisement showed the Old Man giving the V-sign, with a balloon inviting tourists to share the “Blitz Experience.”

Suddenly, halfway down the escalator, Frankham had to sit, a shudder of cold pain wrenching his wounded arm. Passersby stepped delicately around him, and the moving steps nudged him out at the bottom. He found a place to sit, and tried to will the throbbing in his forehead away.

A little girl with curls stepped into his field of vision. Her mother, with a calf-length swirl of skirts and precious nylons, tugged disapprovingly.

“Don’t play with the poor man, dear.”

The little girl dumped something in his lap and was pulled away. Frankham looked down at the canvas-covered lump and, with his good hand, undid the bundle. A gas mask tumbled out. He lifted it up to his face and, fumbling with the straps, fitted it on, inhaling the smell of rubber and cotton. Somehow the pain was eased. He drew up his knees and hugged them.

It wouldn’t be over by Christmas, Frankham knew. But that didn’t matter. London could take it.




COMPANIONS

by Del Stone Jr.







Del Stone Jr. neglected to send me the date and place of his birth. Just another troublemaker messing up my demographic and astrologic studies of writers in The Year’s Best Horror Stories. However, Stone did remember to mention that he is a relative newcomer to writing, with work in both horror and science fiction genres in prose and comics. In prose he has hit various small press publications and is now moving into major markets. His work for the comics includes stories for Hellraiser, Thumbscrew, Vortex Riders, Roadkill and its sequel, Heat. He is at work on his first horror novel, Tidal Pools.

Stone says he “is single by default and lives with two cats, which does not mean they will inherit his millions. When he is not writing he enjoys league bowling, long talks over coffee, and performing his smoke ring trick (which involves putting the business end of a cigarette in his mouth). He is the assistant editor of a newspaper. That’s where he gets his ideas.”

Cats. Coffee. Do you see a pattern?





Manion was dreaming again.

He and Nina and another couple he didn’t know and a real estate agent were standing in the formal dining room of a magnificently expansive house in the countryside, a house most people would call a mansion, a house of such rarefied gentility that even within the skewed perspective of this dream, Manion knew he did not belong here and had no business posing as a buyer.

The room stretched to the horizon on one end; on the other, a pair of double-wide carved oak doors opened to a landing at the foot of a spiral staircase. The room looked through a battery of French windows into the leafless, wintery woodlands outside; slanting bars of sunlight brought airborne layers of near-motionless dust into glaring contrast.

The agent was going on about the lost art of woodworking, her hands fluttering in the sunlight, the shadows of her hands capering against the opposite walls, larger and darker than life, when Manion turned his eye to Nina, shoving his own hands into his pants pockets and simply watching, admiring. Her hair blazed in the sun, showing bronze and copper threads that appeared and disappeared within a burnt-orange cascade of lazy curls. Her hair seemed alive. Individual strands rose and fell in the still air as if Nina herself were the source of a very small, discrete center of convection.

That was when Manion heard the laughter.

It began upstairs, slithering down the staircase like fog in a horror movie, slow and very low in the throat but gaining in volume and tittering up the scale of octaves until it became a shrieking cackle that seemed to rub cold fingers against the knobs of his spine, leaving a trail of gooseflesh. Nina turned to Manion and her eyes had narrowed to a feral squint.

The agent giggled nervously. She said in a flustered voice, “Oh, don’t pay any attention to that. It’s just the demon. All old houses are inhabited by ghosts… or demons.”

Inhabited. And as the agent blathered on, the words skidding off her tongue like cars wrecking on an icy overpass, Manion turned to the wall, where the fresco of their shadows stretched to the ceiling, and saw…

… something. A shimmering blur of black silhouettes, as if the image had been liquified by twisting thermals, and from Nina’s shadow sprouted a set of horns, an arching of leathery wings… and the shadowy hint of a penis.

Then the laughter spiraled out of control and Manion jerked awake and raised himself from the pillow, his heart thudding in his chest and ears, his lungs aching for the lack of a breath.

The bedroom door was swinging open.

He’d closed and locked it the night before, and now it was opening, as if somebody had just walked out of the room.

He did not move. He did not want to think about moving. Because if he moved, he’d do it this way: reach with his right hand, over his hip, to the half of the mattress behind him, feeling for Nina. And if she were there, asleep, he might die of fright, right here in the bedroom.

The toilet flushed and he heard Nina’s familiar morning smoker’s hack, and the air gushed out of his lungs, the sheets ungluing themselves from his clammy flesh, and he collapsed back to the mattress in a fever of relief.

He took three deep breaths, the way the psychiatrist had instructed him to do, and felt the rumble of fear ease out of his muscles, subsiding to a growl, then only the suggestion of a throb, like a cold engine finally throttling down to an idle. Then a strange thought occurred to him:

I have had that dream before…

And his heart began to race anew. He thought, Is it starting again?

But he could not remember enough to answer.




Nina? No, not Nina.

Yet here she was, pacing the Aztec glyph-pattern throw rug he’d bought in New Mexico, her arms jittering like bat wings, her lip curling to expose her teeth, the canines jutting like fangs. He wondered how she didn’t cut her lips on those fangs. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed them before.

“Jesus, is it asking so much?” she shouted, stalking to the edge of the rug, spinning on her heel, stalking back, hands landing on hips, then flying up, fangs sliding out of then back into her mouth.

“All I want is a little consideration. All I want is to feel like I’m a part of—of—” her arms spread as if she were soaring on her frustration, “whatever plan it is you’ve got for the future. I mean, honest to God, Manion. I feel like a frigging appliance around here. Turn me on when you need your coffee brewed or your dishes washed, turn me off when you’re done.” She stopped in front of him, her burnt-orange hair undulating like a flame, and glowered at him. “It doesn’t work that way, Manion. You have to contribute to this relationship.”

Her words weren’t the salient issue. Manion had heard them before, many times; he knew the litany by heart. It was the way she said them. It was the anger that gave rise to her words, and the glimpses of what lay behind her anger, that loomed in Manion’s thoughts. The way she moved her arms. The way she showed her teeth. Subtle clues as to what was going on here.

He’d seen this before, as he’d seen the dream, only this feeling was more touchable than a vague sense of deja vu. This was a memory. This had actually happened. If only he could remember.

Nina stood before him, her bonfire hair eclipsing the late afternoon sunlight and glowing in a corona that was hot and bright and suffocating. Yes, that was the word. Suffocating. She was suffocating him.

“Is any of this getting through to you?” she asked. She licked her lips. “Is it?”

Manion thought, Her tongue… how like a snake’s tongue. But he nodded and said, “Yes, it is. It’s getting through.”

He spotted the bulge at her crotch.

He knew he was close to remembering.




Nina was packing.

Manion has seen women pack before. They pack like they were taking bits and pieces of you and throwing them against the wall and smashing them into smithereens, and screaming at the top of their lungs, “You CREEP! I HATE your fucking GUTS, you BASTARD!” and lots of other unladylike things. Only Nina was shouting, “Why didn’t you TELL me! For God’s sake, all you had to do was TELL me—all this time I thought we had something going, that we were doing something for ourselves, and now THIS—” She clenched the rolled-up magazine in her fist, her fingers curling like daggers, or claws, around the glossy color photo of a penis. Manion wondered if her penis looked like the one in the photo. She blew out a breath of disgust and he half expected the magazine to burst into flames. She slung it against the wall, where it slapped and fell dead to the floor, then resumed cramming her things into her bags: clothes, flat onyx mascara cases, bottles of fingernail polish, pentagram pads of Post-It notes, a Depression-glass handcream jar filled with souls—God, Manion had seen this before, too, but where? When? He couldn’t pin down the memory, and maybe that was Nina’s doing. Why should she want him to remember? Better for her if he didn’t. Better for her if he let her suffocate him, put him in her jar and move along to collect some other dumb bastard.

But Manion was no dumb bastard. The memory was very close to him now. He could feel it breathing down his neck, the hairs at the base of his skull standing erect as his excitement dovetailed with these events. Everything was falling into place, and he was beginning to sense the rightness of it all, and he was beginning to understand what he should do.

—as she snatched snakeskins of jockstrap pantyhose from the shower curtain rod—

—as she opened the medicine cabinet and raked prescription bottles of sulfur and brimstone into her bag—

—as she threw open the closet door and came out with armfuls of—Christ, Manion couldn’t think of words to describe them—the skins of her dead.

This girl, Nina, with the huge erection straining beneath her jeans, was not what she had seemed.

Manion knew what to do. Manion knew what do.

He knew what to do.




Digging. In the dark. Away from the city, away from everyone, where two roads converged and where his memory lay, fully restored, like a box he’d packed off to the attic a long time ago and then couldn’t remember precisely where he had put it. He knew it was there… the rest would require a little digging.

Which is what he was doing.

He had been here before, five times in all, and he even remembered their names: Clara, who he called “Little Bo-Peep,” because she liked curls and ruffles; Maggie, who French-inhaled cigarettes and watched him with Natalie Wood eyes; Kathy, the tomboy with skinny but wellmuscled legs; and Donna, who studied aerospace engineering at college and competed in water ski competitions.

He remembered them all and everything that had passed between them, the dreams, the fights, the discoveries and angry departures. Every time the same. He remembered them as he would remember Nina and the changes that had brought them all to this place: the dark woods near a lonely country intersection where he had stopped that first time, because the man had made him stop, the man who had climbed into his car at a gas station downroad with a story about a sick wife and baby at a house trailer somewhere out there. They’d stopped and Manion had asked him which way, and the man had said This way and when Manion looked at him he was clenching a tiny gun, a lady’s gun, really, and Manion’s blood had run cold because the man was taking off his trousers and ordering Manion to do the same, and—and—

Manion remembered the shame, the shame that burned him inside out, but what he remembered most, and what his mind flinched away from on an almost instinctual level, was the glow of pleasure spreading through him as the man grasped his ankles and raised them and knelt at Manion’s upturned ass and began to push inside, pushing pleasure into him and shaking him with a sinister, giggling grunt and suffocating him with not only his weight but his will, the waves of pleasure breaking over Manion’s disgust and drawing him down, farther down into the places within himself he’d refused to explore.

The man had finished and Manion’s shame re-emerged, freshly scoured and sharp, and Manion had knocked the gun from his hand and snatched it up and put a bullet through the man’s skull with a ladylike pop.

Dead.

It was months later that Manion began to remember… the man’s batlike wings, his horns, his serpent’s tongue darting between his blistered lips. The realization came as almost a relief. It was exactly what Manion needed. An explanation. Not the explanation the psychiatrist had given him. None of that crazy business about symbols and disowning ideas about himself. This was a logical explanation, a rational explanation…

… for the pleasure. The torment. The women who were not women, the shadows of their penises visible only in dreams, slowly rising through his memory to emerge in the cold night out here, in the woods by the intersection where all this had begun, where he brought them to die again. Again.

Not dead. Yet.

“But you will be!” Manion shouted at the spot where he’d buried the man. He thought he heard a muffled gurgle of laughter. He thought he heard the leathery flutter of wings, the hiss of tongues.

From all of them.

Manion kept digging.




MASQUERADE

by Lillian Csernica







Lillian Csernica says: “Born 12/29/65 in San Diego, CA. I’ve spent the last ten years working Renaissance Faires all over the country, with the occasional Dickens Christmas Faire thrown in for fun. I do a lot of part-time costume work. My last gig involved posing as a 16th Century pirate in order to teach basic fencing lessons.

“I’ve sold stories to Midnight Zoo and The Poetic Knight as well as After Hours. Being and The Chimaera carry my regular nonfiction features on metaphysics and history, respectively. My first fantasy novel is finished and I’m working on the sequel. Book reviews are becoming a profitable sideline, and I keep busy with lots of short story projects.

“I write full time from a cabin off the California coast which I share with my husband and twelve cats. When I’m not writing, I’m locked in a struggle against the forces of entropy threatening to take over my kitchen and garden.”

See! See! Cats again! Twelve of them this time! Yes, it all begins to fall into place.





Closing night. Thank God.

My hand hit the solid wood slab of the women’s dressing room door. I shoved it open. The lights on the makeup mirrors stabbed my strained eyes. I headed for my usual seat in the back. Streaks of red, green, and gold dodged aside. The chorus girls were smarter than they looked if they knew enough to stay out of my way. I flattered myself thinking that. The actresses always ignored me. I was just a lighting technician, just another girl backstage. The audience never paid to see me. I sat up in the loft and lit the stars with the follow spot during their solos. That bought me the right to walk in here and watch the show I came to see.

I dragged an empty chair into the corner and sat down. The wood was hard and cold, but the fluffiest pillows couldn’t have been more of a relief after the hours I’d just spent crouched in the loft. With a sigh I leaned back and rubbed a hand across my eyes. Something gummy smeared my skin. Blue-green sparkle streaked my fingers. I now had eye shadow all over my face. Must have put my hand in some on the way to my chair. At the moment I was too tired to do anything about it.

I listened to the clack-clack of high heels, the giggling, the constant slams of the heavy door. The room reeked of too much hair spray and cheap perfume. The girls sat in front of their mirrors, checking their paint jobs. Their eyes were lined an inch around with black, green, red, and a silvery blue. They looked like rejects from a Mayan death ceremony. It didn’t surprise me. The woman who did the actors’ makeup was always done up that way. She had to be a surrealist at heart. The last time we did “Don Giovanni,” the star looked like a Kabuki demon stuffed into Italian court dress.

The girls were still bright and bubbly, still in character. An actor once told me their art was a learned schizophrenia. For each role they split their personalities again to build the new character. When a show closed, did they keep the leftover parts in some mental freezer? That question drove me to come in here and see what really lived under all that makeup and fancy dress.

If magicians used mirrors to create illusions, then actors used them to create their own realities. Each night I watched the girls strip off their stage makeup. These was one naked moment before they put on their everyday paint jobs. The faces that stared back at them then were something to see. I focused here and there, shining my follow-spot eyes on each of them.

*Robin* Nice little Robin was one big smile. Cold cream stole her lipstick, wiped away her smile. She stared into the mirror, twisted her lips up, sideways, down. Naked-faced, she couldn’t get that big smile back. Her reflection put its fingers to the corners of her mouth and pulled them up into that big smile. Robin laughed.

*Luanne* She posed like a queen on her throne. We were the same age, but she never got carded. Her reflection looked out from its glass prison, unlined and innocent of paint. She studied it as though it weren’t hers. It stared back, eyes grave.

*Chrissie* She played the go-go dancer in her white boots and spangled leotard. Off came the leotard like a million-dollar fur. With tender care she laid it over the back of her chair then pulled off her boots. She stood naked of more than paint before her mirror, wearing only fishnets and goose pimples. She shivered. Her reflection struck a pose, thrusting out its breasts and shaking back its blonde hair. Chrissie giggled.

I watched, out of the mirrors’ sight. I never needed a mirror. Grubby clothes and sturdy gloves were all the costume a light tech wore. I didn’t need makeup, either. Six-by-nines, lekos, and follow spots looked only at the actors on the stage. I was a line in the program, a few words on paper nobody read. You saw me everywhere in all the preplanned lights and shadows, but you noticed only the actors moving through me.

I suddenly felt glad to have my job. Actors lived for the attention of the audience. From where I sat, the real audience seemed to be the one looking back at them from the mirror. Robin slicked her lips a screaming red and brought back that showboat grin. Luanne added lines and shadows until her maturity was intact. She’d drink and dance and go where she pleased with all those borrowed years. Chrissie wriggled into a red lace bustier and leather miniskirt. Presto! The dishwater blonde became the vamp, the party girl, the one the boys all wanted.

Now they were ready to play whatever thawed-out leftover parts made up their real selves. One by one they left for the actors’ parties. The door banged shut. I was alone. Alone with all the mirrors.

I used the chair as a crutch to push myself up. My thigh muscles yelped. The dressing room was quiet. The low hum of the mirror lights whispered to me. Piles of mascara wands and blush compacts littered the long tables. Peacock eye shadows winked at me.

Eye shadow. I still had to get that off my face. Necessity forced me to a mirror. I sat before it, in Luanne’s place. The mirror showed me good cheekbones and a nose from my father’s German peasant blood. Lines of weariness aged me. Fatigue painted circles under my eyes. I shook my head. Heads shook all around me. I jumped. Then I realized it was just me, reflected in all the mirrors. They had no mercy in showing me exactly how wretched I looked. The bright sparkle of the eye shadow only made it worse. Beneath that false glitter I looked horrible, not in one mirror but in them all. Was this what upset the girls so much? It wasn’t a great face, but I knew it for my own. I never wore any other.

Then it hit me. Night after night they changed their faces, split their selves apart to fit their roles. How many shows did these girls do in a year? How many roles, how many faces? After a while they might forget what their real faces looked like! Then they made up new ones out of the bits they remembered. Robin’s smile. Luanne’s age. Chrissie’s sex appeal. They remembered what the mirrors showed them.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” I asked my reflection. “You keep their faces for them.” I knocked on the mirror’s cold glass surface. “Anybody home?” I laughed at my own silliness.

The dressing room’s acoustics were bad. It sounded like my reflection kept laughing after I stopped. I shivered, the same way Chrissie shivered. I jerked the top off Luanne’s cold cream jar and slapped some across my face. I ripped Kleenex from her box to scrub off the eye shadow then threw it into the trash can. I sprang up out of her chair, ignoring the pain in my legs.

The reflections sprang up with me. Now the one in front of me grinned. I put my hand to my mouth. I wasn’t grinning. I shut my eyes. Long night, no dinner. I was getting loopy. All the hair spray was probably poisoning my brain. I turned around. The reflection in Robin’s mirror waved. It wore another nasty grin. Good thing my hand was still over my mouth. I nearly screamed.

I glanced up and down the row of mirrors. Every reflection face me. That wasn’t right. Some of them should have faced other angles. Every one stared right at me, wearing that evil grin.

“This isn’t funny.”

They all glanced at each other, then back at me. Those evil grins opened. They laughed. I backed up toward the door, trying to keep all the reflections in sight at once. Chrissie’s mirror showed me myself in that bustier and miniskirt. Somehow both fit. I stopped, startled. Could I really look like that? This had to be a hallucination. I walked over to Chrissie’s mirror and stared at the reflection there. I’d never had long nails or a flat stomach. Yet there I was, every bit as trashy and gorgeous as Chrissie. I wondered what it felt like to wear an outfit like that. The mirrors were only glass with painted backs. Harmless. I touched my fingertips to the cold glass.

A hand with long red nails thrust out of the mirror and grabbed me by the wrist. It dragged me toward the mirror. I yanked back against its grip. Chrissie’s teasing comb lay on the table. I jabbed its pointy end into the reflection’s hand. We both yelled, I dropped the comb.

“What the hell is that?” I hauled back even harder. More of the reflection’s arm came out of the mirror. I didn’t know what I’d do if I had to drag her whole body out of there. “Are you mad at me because I guessed what you can do?”

The reflection nodded. Behind it crowded others, the ones from all the other mirrors. More hands popped out to claw at me. I looked around for another weapon. Robin’s jar of cold cream sat on her table across the aisle. I reached toward it straining my arm, my hand, and every finger to their full length. The reflections dragged at my other arm. I gritted my teeth against the pain and stretched as far as I could. My fingertips brushed the jar’s lid. I grabbed another comb and used it to push the jar within reach. In the mirror above it something moved. I glanced up. My reflection appeared. Its hands thrust toward me. I lunged forward that last inch and grabbed the jar. The reflection’s fingers scrabbled on my sleeve. I lurched backward before it could get a grip. Right then the reflection holding my other arm threw its weight back. My sneakers slipped on the tiles and I fell toward the mirror. I threw the jar ahead of me. It and the mirror shattered. I ducked the flying glass. Cold cream sprayed across my face, blinding me. All around me echoed screams. The grip on my arm fell away. I staggered down the aisle, bumping into chairs and shoving aside the hanging costumes. Behind me I could hear the flash and pop of mirror lights blowing out. They were angry. What happened to a reflection caught in a shattered mirror? I hoped it hurt.

My hand hit the door. I sagged against it and wiped the cold cream out of my eyes. The reflections glared at me. Some beat their fists at the inside walls of their mirrors, demanding to be let out. Not a chance. I put my finger on the light switch.

“Good night, ladies.” I clicked the switch, killing the lights.




PRICE OF THE FLAMES

by Deidra Cox







This story is from the irrepressible newcomer, Deidra Cox, who has already copped an interview in Deathrealm along with her story. Cox hails from Garrett, Kentucky. If you’re from the region, you know there are horrors lurking in coal-mining country.

Cox tells us: “I’m a housewife with two kids. My husband is an electrician in the coal mines. My birthday is October 31, 1961. Yeah. I know. While growing up, I was the butt of several Halloween jokes. I wrote my first story, a horror tale about the end of the world vampires in the fourth grade, a tale which made a couple of my classmates cry, by the way. During high school, I became so engrossed in completing a lusty virgin/noble Indian saga, I nearly flunked algebra! Those hot pages were passed around most of the entire female population of Knott Central. But now… I’ve been writing the last five years and so far, I have 81 sales, including Bizarre Bazaar, Palace Corbie, Gathering Darkness, and a Russian-Polish anthology, New Worlds: edited by Edward Lee. My first novel, When the Sparrow Cries, a weird mix of dark fantasy, suspense, and splatterpunk, is out there making the rounds. I’m currently working on two different projects, Sanctuary, a tale of vampires, a serial killer, and an underground city, and The Guardian, a young adult horror novel.”

Cox didn’t say how many cats.





John saw him just ahead, leaning against the mile marker and making no attempt to seek shelter from the rain. He slowed the Cadillac and considered the possibilities. Gnarled hands trembled briefly before steering to the shoulder. He pushed the passenger door open and watched the rain trail down the vinyl.

“Need a ride?” John asked.

A pair of cold blue eyes peered at him and John shivered. If the need hadn’t been so strong, he would’ve left. Hit the gas and took off for greener pastures. But the need was a ravenous fire inside him, licking at his groin, so John stayed and tried not to weep.

After a slow shrug, the youth slithered into the car, making no apologies for the wet stains he made on the seat. They drove in silence, the boy giving no words of thanks. John stole a glance and began to sketch the unknown life.

Black hair was plastered to the boy’s skull like matted weeds in a dead field. Average height. Impossibly thin. The outline of hungry ribs protruded from the ragged Tee shirt. The young face was all angles and bones. A ripe odor flooded the car and John cracked his window.

“Been on the road long?”

“Fuck off.”

John threw him a hard look, but said nothing. Anger poured from the youth in a chilling wave, filling the confined area with the scent. John gritted his teeth as his eyes wandered back to the boy. So young. So fresh and young.

“I just wondered where you’re from,” John said and licked his lips. “Where you’re going?”

A muscle tensed in the youth’s cheek, the violence lying close to the surface. A ripple of bittersweet pleasure moved in John. Good, he thought. That’ll make it easier.

“My house isn’t far from here if you’d like to change out of those wet clothes,” John said. “You could catch a nasty cold if you stay in them much longer.”

“Yeah? Then what?” The boy suddenly came to life, snapping forward and gripping the dash. “So, whattya get outta this?”

The air crackled with electricity and the only sound was the windshield wipers slapping against the glass. John exhaled slowly, anticipation swelling in his chest.

“Whatever you want to give.”

The boy snorted and fell back into the seat. “Goddamn faggots.”

An uneasy calm settled over the two. John watched the boy carefully, waiting for the attack and strangely disappointed when none came. The sour odor grew stronger and John pressed a little harder on the accelerator while keeping a wary eye on the speedometer. Didn’t want to attract the cops. Not at this stage of the game.

He hit the exit ramp with a strange sense of relief mixed with sad wonder. He turned to the boy. “Just a few minutes now. Then we’ll be home.”

The boy sneered. “Is Auntie Em and Dorothy gonna be there, too, Pops?”

John paused, then continued, ignoring the thick sarcasm. “What’s your name? I hate to keep calling you boy. That’s not right.”

An empty silence answered him.

“I’ll tell you mine and you can tell me yours. I’m John Munroe.”

The boy smiled. “Go to hell, John.”

The words echoed in his head at a dizzying rate until he bit his tongue to stop the nervous chatter bubbling within.

Go to hell. Go to hell, John.

I’ve already been there, he thought. Many, many times.

A faint comfort eased over him when John saw the familiar markings of home. On either side of the road, vacant houses dotted the horizon in a thin, continuous line. Broken glass sparkled in the rain, sending jagged rainbows in the heavy liquid. Dead trees and brown grass adorned the landscape.

When had it happened? When did the people leave? Was it a gradual exodus or a massive evacuation?

He couldn’t remember. No matter how hard he tried, John couldn’t pull the memory from his brain. This was bad. Very bad, indeed.

He turned onto a deserted lane. The scenery was a repeat of the streets they’d drove by before. Nothing moved. Not even a stray dog. The absence of any living creatures gave the town an unnerving quality. A fact that wasn’t lost upon John’s guest.

“What the hell is this place?”

John smiled and parked in front of a darkened house, identical to all the others. The windows stared blankly at them like a blind man’s eyes in the relentless rain.

“Welcome to Perdition,” John said. “Surely you’ve heard of us. A few years ago we were almost famous as the town that was eating itself alive. Newspapers, television, radio. They all came to us, wanting a story.”

He removed the keys from the ignition and stepped out from the car. After a moment’s hesitation, the boy did the same. Sulfur, acid and burning, billowed in the wetness, assaulting the senses and leaving the boy slightly nauseous. An intricate web of glowing cracks worked across the ground beneath their feet. Rain sizzled and turned to steam, the heat rising like a cloud and choking them both with the bitter odor.

“Let’s go inside,” John said and motioned to the house. “You can change into some dry clothes.”

They walked slowly, each eyeing the other for any sudden move. The porch sagged underneath their combined weight. “Don’t worry, son,” John said. “It’s okay.”

The door was unlocked as most were in Perdition. The need for safety long past. The living room floor was dusty, red mud caked across the threadbare rug.

Holding the door open, John watched the boy enter. He stiffened and waited for the oncoming attack. A knife was shoved against his neck, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

“Gimme the keys and your money, faggot,” the boy hissed into his ear.

And so it begins, John thought and slammed his fist into the unprotected groin. The knife fell to the floor as the boy collapsed, clutching his injured privates. A vicious chop to the back of the head spelled the end of any threat from him.

John looked down at the unconscious form lying in the dust. The excitement he’d felt earlier was gone, replaced by the weight of time and responsibility. He stared out a grimy window at the eternal rain, then proceeded to undress the boy.




Heat soaked into his skin as the boy slowly slipped to awareness. His eyes watered and he blinked to clear the stinging tears. The ground was hot under his buttocks and his hand scraped against a rock as he twisted around.

A red glow filled the room. No, he thought. I’m no longer in the house. He rolled to his side and nearly fell over the edge of a large break-off. His stomach lurched as he saw the river of molten lava flowing below. Flames licked along the surface, casting crimson shadows across the walls.

Crawling away, he scrambled to his knees and tried to stand. Flashes of light pierced his skull, causing him to stagger forward. A pair of strong hands helped him regain his balance, then lingered about his waist.

The boy jerked to one side, freeing himself from the clinging hands. John stood by him, the warm eyes locking with his. The old man was naked also, his withered sex hanging limply between his legs. A black strap encircled his right thigh and sheathed a large knife.

“They said we brought it upon ourselves,” John said. “Digging the coal from the ground. Setting the explosives. Leaving the earth a hollow shell.

“But they were wrong. The flames were always with us. Since the beginning of lime. Waiting for the proper sacrifice.”

“You’re ape shit, old man,” the boy whispered. The knife called to him, promising freedom.

John smiled. “You’re probably right. But what does sanity matter? What value does it hold? The flesh, the spirit. Only they have merit. The years come and go, but the soul lives on. Eternal. If you’re willing to pay the price.”

He paused and stretched out a hand to caress the boy’s cheek. “What is your name? I’ve told you mine.”

The boy swallowed hard and maintained a steady gaze. “Frog. My friends call me Frog.”

He smiled at the old man and then, in one quick movement, lunged at the knife. Arching his wrist upward, the metal sank into the soft belly, making a sucking sound as the blade tore in the shrunken cavity.

Frog looked up at John, expecting to see the final throes of death written on his face. Instead, Frog received a startling revelation.

A joyous expression enveloped John’s features, hinting of a rapture beyond human comprehension. Frog watched as a hand slid down to the knife and toyed with the hilt. A flicker of fear uncoiled in his chest as John removed the hilt to reveal another razor sharp blade.

Before the boy could react, John shoved him close and impaled him on the double edged knife. “Die with me,” he whispered and kissed the boy softly. “Die and be born again.”

Betraying his abnormal strength, John embraced the boy and together, they leaped into the river of flames. Frog’s screams shattered the silence, echoing through the empty cavern until a subtle change evolved.

Two bodies submerged in the molten lava, yet only one surfaced. Flesh melted, mingled with the flames and then reformed to a different shape.

The man pulled himself from the river and rested upon the bank. A thin coating of ash covered the taut, firm skin. Although the experience was nothing new, he couldn’t help but admire the beautiful interplay of muscle and tissue flexing beneath the babyish skin.

How many times had he endured the purging? Ensnared a soul and claimed it as his own before the flames cleansed him?

John lifted his eyes to the river and watched. How long? 150? 200 years since he and his brother had fallen into the earth and discovered the secrets of the river of flames?

The knowledge was a curse. One he abhorred, yet desired above all else. Still, he wondered. Why had he been spared? Why hadn’t his brother been the chosen one? He beat his fists against his head, impotent rage clouding his mind. His emotions warred with themselves until John dropped his hands to his lap, drained and weary.

His eyes glittered. Lost, all lost. How many lives had been destroyed in his quest to cheat death? How many innocents had he led to the slaughter?

At his feet, the river flowed onward, bubbles rolling to the surface and leaking the strong sulfur odor. He longed for the courage to step into the river alone, without the required sacrifice. Would an end to his miserable existence be granted? Or would a new torment await him?

Gathering his strength, John stood and stared into the boiling depths. The flames danced higher, taunting him with their power. He leaned forward, his heart in his mouth, muscles tense and ready. His head ached from the fire burning inside.

A tortured cry ripped from his lungs and he sank to his knees. It was no use. He couldn’t. The fine particles of ask slowly fell from his body and floated to the ground. To John, it was as if his life faded with them. Loss swept through his soul. Loss and shame. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks as he wept for the boy.

And himself.




THE BONE GARDEN

by Conrad Williams







Conrad Williams is yet another newcomer to The Year’s Best Horror Stories. Williams states that he is 24 years old and was born in Warrington, Cheshire, where he currently resides. He graduated from Bristol Polytechnic in 1992 and is now studying for an MA at Lancaster University. He has sold some thirty-five stories to small press and professional magazines such as Dark Dreams, Chills, Peeping Tom, Dementia 13, Exuberance, Mystique, BBR, Works, and Panurge, in addition to appearances in various anthologies: Sugar Sleep, Darklands 2, Northern Stories 4, The Third Alternative, The Science of Sadness, and Narrow Houses 3.

Williams relates: “A novel of mine, called Sipping Midnight is currently doing the rounds and I’m at work on a new book called Head Injuries.”

At the end of this book you will be quizzed regarding all these novels stirring about.





Much of that final day was taken up with placating my family, a surprisingly difficult task which left me more drained than the hot work of transferring furniture to my new house. Grandma cried most. Not that mum and dad or Pol, my sister, weren’t getting maudlin, it’s just that none of us had ever seen Gran cry before and her tears made everyone else feel worse. I suppose it was because I was moving to the house she’d shared with Granddad for so long before coming to live with us when the loneliness and strain became too much for her. At one point I had to take myself down to the concrete football pitch to escape the clotted feeling that I was making a mistake. I wasn’t, of course, and I had only to focus on my reasons for this move to guarantee its execution: all of them somehow wheeling back to the old woman who occupied the attic room above my own.

Down here, where I’d scored more goals in one day than Pele in a season, I allowed myself to weep, for the people I was leaving behind, the uncertainty of my future and for me. After a while, I grew angry at self-indulgence and stalked back, eager to get the last of my stuff out. A housewarming for my friends had been arranged that evening; I’d not let it be spoilt.

I kissed everyone good-bye. Gram held me close for a beat or two longer than I felt comfortable with before whispering a few words that I couldn’t quite recognize. Rather than ask her to repeat them I left, as calmly as possible, the smile on my face as I drove away threatening to crease into something awful and dead.

That first night after the wine and music I lay awake for hours listening to the alien murmur of the house and the trees beyond its window. My mind’s eye framed the four of them in my rear view mirror, waving by the gate; pink stick figures punctured by black slashes and dots where their features gaped at me. Either my memory wouldn’t allow me a clear view of Gran or she was shaded by the reach of our cherry tree. There’d be a glitter there somewhere, in the blackness of her eyes. Her words to me, what had they been? I visualized the shaping of her lips as she mouthed them; thin flat lines blooming to a great wet thickness, pursed as though readying to kiss me.

I cleared up the mess and opened all the windows, hoping vainly to rid the house of its smoky, beery reek. I took in the strange new view outside, this fresh configuration of roofs, roads and tree tops. I wondered if I would pine for the simple picture I’d grown up with at home; how little that had changed as I altered a lot. I used to think the glass was part of a time tank in which I was doomed to wither and die while everything outside remained young and beautiful.

I looked down at my shadow, the vague M shape it made in the block of light on my garden. Perhaps I should have been worried when I realized something other than that was moving in the overgrown grass but I was still drifting with my thoughts. It would take me a long time to straighten things down there. I wondered if I should just clear the lawn of litter and then leave it; let it sprawl. The garden at home was too clinical and angular—I needed some chaos in my life.

Something black and sinuous worked itself through a bramble patch like a thin flow of oil.

The light was too great. I would have to kill it to gain a better view. When I came back to the window, I was thinking of snakes and foxes. There was nothing now, of course, save for the grass breathing and a sudden, far away clamor of sirens. Once I’d grown accustomed to the sounds of my new home I slept, knowing that before long I wouldn’t be able to relax without them.

At dawn I took coffee into the garden, mildly surprised to find this was my first visit. It was disorienting, seeing everything from this new angle when previously, all had been observed from the window up there. The grass was much longer than I’d believed; it stung my hands as I tried to wade through it. I wondered what I might unearth should I change my mind and choose to raze the lot but I didn’t much care for the chatter of my imagination as it tried to offer me answers. I drank my coffee and went up to take a bath. Once I’d brought the water to a heat I could just about bear, I submerged myself completely, surfacing only to drape a sodden, steaming flannel over my face. I sucked some of its scalding air into my lungs and thought of Gran again. Recent memories were of her smothering me in a way that everyone but me perceived as generosity and helpless love. She’d lost her husband twice; once to a coma after a bus mashed him against a wall and again when death finally caught up after ten years of unsleep. She must have thought it natural for her to transfer her attention to me, born in the year of his demise, as if she were hoping to grasp some aspect of his character in the development of mine. Recent nights I’d bore a hole into the ceiling with my eyes as her slippered feet scraped in circles. A little after midnight (or sometimes as the first bird greeted the dawn) I’d hear the creak of bedsprings as she finally settled down, but that sorrowful shuffling remained, a spiral of ghosts in my mind. I never went up to her room to see what she was doing on those long nights though I had plenty of ideas, many of them morbid. I envisioned her dancing a toe to toe smooch with one of her husband’s old jackets or performing a meditative pattern of footsteps designed to suck him back from the grave. Maybe it was as innocent as cramp or insomnia. And though they were the more rational, I found myself believing otherwise.

For some reason I couldn’t fathom, possibly connected to the way all women seem to possess a sensitivity for such moods, Mum asked me why I shunned Gran so. It wasn’t something I did effusively; wary as I was of her I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. That Mum had noticed my rejection of her, however subtle, and mentioned it specifically, I found myself discussing it where otherwise I might have shrugged off the allegations as ludicrous.

“She worships you, Daniel,” she said, once we’d established that my coolness towards her was in no way malicious.

“Why?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t like her. She makes me feel, I don’t know… invaded.” That was true enough; even in my dreams I’d sometimes see her bending over me, her face dipping in and out of shadow, till she was able to thieve the breath from my lip and the color from my skin. Close enough to peel me open and tuck herself safely inside.

“Humor her. You’d like to see her go to the grave miserable?”

“No. Of course not.” I suppose in that moment, my need to leave home grew to the point where I could no longer let it simmer as just another fancy of mine.

The water was getting cold.

I spent the day sorting out boxes in the kind of resigned melancholy that only people who’ve experienced a large scale move can understand. I was sure these boxes and the crap they contained had multiplied overnight. Once I’d established a pile in each room I set about cleaning windows. Silly, really, when so much hoovering and dusting needed to be done; when I got round to it all the stirred up muck would settle on the windows again, but I didn’t mind, it’s a part of housework I find almost soporific. Maybe it’s the rhythm of the task or the squeegee’s magic which, since childhood, I’ve regarded with a kind of awe. It took on a deeper significance now, though, as I went from room to room because I saw the garden differently each time. It wasn’t so much a fresh angle that intrigued me but the misting I caused on the glass with my cloth and polish through which the body of grass and brambles took on a novel complexion. Was it my imagination that suggested, beyond the pink scars of Windolene, a twisted frame of bone or was it simply shadows and greenery, coercing the thought? I’m famed for seeing shapes in clouds nobody else can discern; I oughtn’t become frantic about a suggestion of rippled gray that looks like a grid of ribs or a softly shaded globe punched with moments of black where eyes might once have been cradled.

My squeegee cut through the haze and made everything clear, including my foolishness. The grass was flattened in one area, the well it created pooling with shadows that were so bland and unambiguous I found myself straining to pinpoint the foundations of my unease in their shapes.

Harriet arrived shortly after a meager dinner of beans, crackers, and half a tube of Smarties. She helped me stack my paperbacks on shelves and suggested some colors for the bathroom; she’d be able to get the gear cheap as her father worked in one of the vast home improvement stores that were slowly surrounding the town. I kissed her, not expecting, or particularly wanting it to lead to anything—I was tired—but it did, and she led me out through the back door into the rasping garden.

“Let’s christen this pristine lawn of yours,” she whispered into my mouth, pulling me down till the grass became deafening. It didn’t last long, partly because I hadn’t seen Harriet for a week and needed her warmth but also because I was wondering about the flattened patch of grass and why it should be like that. It could have been eager lovers, like us, stealing in from the main road, but my mind was trying to convince me that it was something buried beneath the grass, poisoning its roots and halting any growth. I tried to remember, as I looked into Harriet’s liquid eyes, if the shape had resembled a body.

Harriet didn’t mention my haste. I hoped it was because she needed me, too, but I couldn’t ask. She stayed with me and I was glad because near midnight I heard the slow shush of footsteps circling above my room.

I checked the attic in the morning while Harriet made French toast. I felt vaguely daft once I’d poked around: what the hell did I expect to find? There was nothing up there but an old wardrobe. Inside, my grandparents’ wedding garb draped from coat hangers, the faded blacks and whites clinging together. I thought I could smell a whiff of perfume. They must have had such a close, warm marriage. I tried to imagine how I would feel if Harriet died in such horrifying circumstances, but it was a pointless exercise; our lives were beyond comparison. A whole generation of values and ethics had changed. If I couldn’t empathize with a system as staid and correct as theirs, what hope did I have of assimilating the lives of two people who were born of that era with Harriet and me?

When Harriet left, she took with her any warmth and character the house was starting to accumulate. Angry for no apparent reason, I stormed into the garden shed but I couldn’t find anything with which to shave the lawn. By the time I’d dressed and opened the front door, my rage had evaporated and asking a neighbor for his mower seemed unnecessary.

I made a shopping list, trying to imagine how the house might look once I’d imbued it with something of me. Hopefully my character would replace that of my grandparents despite there being half a century of their community witnessed by these walls. What had they talked about on the still nights when it was too cold to go out? But in asking the question, I kind of knew the answer, which unsettled me because it implied an intimacy with them I could never have shared.

I called Harriet that evening, but she couldn’t come round; she was traveling to Mold to watch a friend perform in a new play. I dropped enough hints about my possibly accompanying her, but either she ignored them or this was a “friend” night and lovers weren’t allowed. I rang home, hoping they’d not think I was lonely, and chatted with Dad about budgets for a while till the proximity of his voice and the easy way in which he spoke relaxed me. Soon I didn’t mind being alone again. I listened to a John Lee Hooker album but that only made me think of Harriet; funny how you can be sad about someone even when a relationship is going well. I suppose it’s the self-pity everyone lingers over from time to time. Wondering how people will react to news of your death, that sort of thing. Tragedy is not completely unattractive.

I didn’t want to go to bed in such a solemn mood, but it was my own fault. Even the TV couldn’t help. Of the stations still broadcasting, one was showing an Ingmar Bergman film dealing with incest, the other a play about a cancer ward. I switched off and took a book upstairs.

I must have dozed because the telephone made me jump and the book slid to the floor. It was Mum. She told me Grandma had died; a heart attack apparently, as she was making a cup of tea. I didn’t feel sorrow, only fear. I tried to reassure Mum and told her I’d be over in the morning. When I replaced the receiver, the air had somehow thickened.

Trying to force sleep to claim me only made me more restless. The pillow was full of prickles, the blankets hot and itchy. Each time I closed my eyes, Grandma’s meaty lips loomed and I smelled naphthalene clinging to that heavy coat she always wore. Something stirred over my head; the muffled creak of weight shifting on the floorboards. Her mouth twisted and pursed and tightened, fluting her words into my ear. What had she said to me that day? It seemed critical I remember. I wished Harriet was with me. I wished I’d not left home. I wished I had less of an idea of what lay buried in the garden.

“Thank God you’re coming back.” Was that what she’d said? I shifted in bed, feeling too much like something packaged and waiting to be unwrapped. The footsteps above me completed one final circle then began to descend. Outside, the grass wakened with a soft roar and it was then, as a shadow spoiled the thin line of light beneath my door, that I realized Gran hadn’t been mourning my departure so much as celebrating my arrival.




ICE CREAM AND TOMBSTONES

by Nina Kiriki Hoffman


Born in Los Angeles on March 20, 1955, Nina Kiriki Hoffman grew up in Southern California, fled to Idaho, and now resides in Eugene, Oregon. I bet she has cats. Hoffman has burst rather suddenly onto the horror scene, rapidly earning acclaim for her thoughtful and unpredictable manner of messing with your brain.

Hoffman says: “My first novel, The Thread That Binds the Bones, came out from Avon last year. Am working on another for them, and looks like I sold a fantasy young adult book, too. Been selling lots of stories to anthologies.”

I’ll be watching.




She was sitting on my mother’s tombstone, eating an ice cream cone. I wanted to kill her.

“Hi, kid,” she said. “Nice day, huh?” She licked the strawberry scoop, between the chocolate scoop and one that looked like coffee, but might be maple or butter rum or something like that. Then she leaned back, eyes closed, and let the sun shine on her face.

For the middle of winter, it was a pretty nice day. Sun in an ice-blue sky shone bright enough so that bare trees looked brown instead of black and skeletal. I wanted to kill this woman, but I couldn’t help wondering how she could eat ice cream on a morning when there was still ice across all the puddles, and piled slush along the streets. I had stepped in a puddle on my way here with the flowers, broke through the ice (it was half an inch thick), and splashed water on my sneakers and socks. My feet were freezing. It was my twelfth birthday, and nobody had given me a card or a present at breakfast—maybe they forgot. I felt grumpy.

“Get off there!” I yelled.

She crossed her legs so she looked like some kind of leprechaun or something perching on the stone. She wore pink satin slippers, black-and-white striped socks that went up above her knees, and what looked like three coats on top of each other. Some sort of dark wool skirt stuck out from under them a little. She also had a green muffler around her neck and she wore tan knitted gloves with holes in most of the fingers. She looked familiar, and I didn’t know why.

“Oh, now,” she said, “now.”

“Go on!” I yelled. I ran at her, wanting to push her right off so she’d break a leg or her head or something vital.

“Lexi,” she said.

I stopped. She said my name as if it belonged in her mouth. It gave me pause. Most everybody called me Alexandra, except Daddy. He called me Lexi. He said it was what my mother had planned to call me before I was born. When my stepmother, Candace, called me Lexi, I yelled at her to stop it.

“Lexi,” said this woman, sitting up straight and opening her eyes so she could stare at me. Her eyes were brown, like mine. She licked the chocolate scoop on her ice cream cone. “Want a bite?”

I felt so cold inside I couldn’t even speak. I shook my head.

Her hair was brown like mine, too, and she had those cheekbones and that chin, what Daddy called a valentine face, pointed at the bottom, broad in the middle, with at widow’s peak at the top—a face like mine.

“I wanted to talk to you about the flowers,” she said. She held out the ice cream cone to me. “Sure you don’t want some?”

I looked at my mother’s gray granite tombstone. MOIRA ALONZO it said, BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER. The day she was born and the day she died. She had died the day I was born.

“I don’t want any ice cream,” I said.

“Yes you do. Everything you do says so. Lexi, I’ve been dead for twelve years now, and you only started bringing me flowers six months ago.” We both looked down at the frozen roses from yesterday, and the dozen pink and white carnations I was carrying today. I was babysitting for everybody on our block, and spending all the money on flowers.

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring them before,” I said.

“I don’t want them now, honey,” she said. “They aren’t really mine. They smell funny. They smell like you’re thinking about somebody else when you’re buying them and bringing them here.”

I looked at the carnations in their waxed paper. I sniffed them. They smelled like carnations always smell, spicy and fragrant.

“By the time they get here, the flowers have turned to knives,” she said. “I would rather not have my grave covered with weapons.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Lexi,” she said, her voice soft. “Every evening you buy a bouquet and put it in the refrigerator where everyone in the house will see it. You’re spending all your energy trying to hurt someone, and that’s like eating ice cream in the snow.”

I thought about Candace, who wanted me to call her Mom. She was always trying to touch me. She wanted to hug me every time I came home. It was enough to make me want to leave home forever.

“What you do is up to you, of course,” she said. “Happy birthday, honey.” She offered me the ice cream cone one more time, and this time I took it from her. She smiled and disappeared.

I laid the carnations on the grave. Leaning against the tombstone, I took my first lick of the ice cream, from the bottom scoop. Definitely coffee, my favorite flavor. It tasted good, but now my tongue was freezing, along with the rest of me. I tasted the other two flavors anyway. It was the best ice cream I’d ever had.

Still holding the cone, I knelt and picked up the frozen roses. They wore clear sheaths of ice. Then I looked at the carnations.

School would start in a half an hour and I had to go home and collect my lunch and change my shoes and socks. I hesitated a long time, staring at the pale flowers against the dark earth and grass of the winter grave. The ice cream cone didn’t even pretend to melt. At last I collected the carnations too. I left the ice cream sitting upright in the little vase place on the grave.

I put the roses in the trash by the cemetery gate.

I took the carnations home and put them in a glass, then placed them on the desk in my bedroom. Maybe everybody else forgot it was my birthday. My mother and I knew it. I sat on my bed and changed my shoes and socks. When I looked up at the flowers, they were blurry. My face felt hot. I thought it was as good a place as any to start warming up.




SALT SNAKE

by Simon Clark







Simon Clark was born in Wakefield, West Yorkshire on April 20, 1958, and presently resides in the South Yorkshire village of Adwick-le-street with his wife and two children. Clark first appeared in The Year’s Best Horror Stories: XIV; this is his fourth appearance here, and in the interim his writing career has prospered. Connection?

Clark offers this bit of chill regarding himself: “When Simon Clark was five years old, he fell through the ice of a frozen lake into deep water. Drowning, his cries for help unheard, he realized he’d have to save himself. Somehow he managed to haul himself out. Maybe this near death experience in the water has infected his writing. Many of his stories involve the other worldness of the sea or rivers or lakes. For him deep waters hold more dangers than common-or-garden drowning. In his novel Nailed By The Heart, the ocean delivers up miracles, monsters, and an old, old god with an appetite for sacrifice. In ‘Salt Snake’ the sea threatens once more—only this time it’s not content to sit beneath the high tide mark and wait for man to venture into its cold, briny body.”





“Are you going to give the bitch one?”

“Aye, go on. Then drive the car through the front of the house and set it on fucking fire. Burn the bloody lot.”

“Shut it, bollock brain. I’m thinking.”

Viper, leader of the gang, sat on the edge of the antique oak table smoking a cigarette. Tattooed snakes writhed up his long bare arms in red coils. Two tattooed snake heads, jaws open, fangs dripping blobs of venom protruded from under his FUCK YOU! T-shirt. Around his neck was the tattoo he did in Borstal with a safety pin and a biro nicked from some fat-arsed screw. The dotted blue line bisected his neck. Ugly letters pricked CUT HERE.

Viper cleared his throat and spat thickly on the rich carpet. “You ’aven’t touched her then, Spuggy?”

“Course I ain’t,” said a blond-haired lad.

“Good job, or I’d split your fucking face.”

“If you ask me,” said the third, Joe, in a leather jacket that smelt of piss, “she’s out of her tree. All she does is look out of the window and go on about the sea being full of salt.”

“Well Viper’s not going to give her an IQ test first, is he?”

Viper threw what was left of the cigarette at a fireplace big enough to roast a whole pig in, and stood up. “I’m starving. Get the beer from the car, Joe.” To the blondhaired one he said, “Spuggy, get some snap on the go. Chips with something. Make it a boat load. I’ll give the mad bitch upstairs a seeing-to later.”

Spuggy smiled as an idea prodded into his mind. “We got them video cameras on the last ram. We could—you know—film it.”

Viper scowled as he lit another cigarette. “No one’s taking home movies of my bollocks.”

“No.” Spuggy looked sly. “Get Joe to—you know—after you’ve done. Then we could do a snuff film. Sell it. You know, make a few grand.”

“What, kill her? Yer out of ya tree, Spuggy. Go peel some spuds.”

Viper returned to the polished table to smoke the cigarette. For the past week they’d torn through Lincolnshire, twoccing cars and ram raiding shops. Anything from off-licenses to electronic stores. Now they’d got enough booze, cigs, videos and hi-fis to return to the Yorkshire estate where they squatted and to live like the sons of Tory MPs for a few weeks. Viper spat. The only trouble was the cops had got too friggin close. When the weather got bad, fog so thick you couldn’t see as far as your arse, they’d lost them. Then they’d driven the van along roads that seemed to get narrower and more twisted by the mile. At one point, they’d seen a sign that told them they’d made it into Norfolk. They’d kept going, looking for a nice empty house. Miles from anywhere.

By dark they’d reached one. A big old manorhouse or something at the edge of the sea. The nearest village was ten miles away. This was nice and quiet. They’d rest, fill their bellies, get pissed, shit all over the duvets and kick in the oak paneling. Then they’d go.

But the house hadn’t been deserted.

In a bedroom, they’d found a girl of about eighteen, just dressed in a short cotton nightie. With the longest legs you’ve ever seen, Spuggy had said she was wearing no knickers but Viper hadn’t seen anything. Not that it mattered. She’d got long blonde hair all the way down her back. And her face… Well, it was no oil painting but there was something striking about it.

“Did you notice,” said Spuggy later, “she’s got a squint, you know, boz-eyed.”

Joe had laughed. “Not much of one. Not enough to put you off giving her one. Or are you queer or something, Spuggy?”

That had nearly caused a fight until Viper quelled it with a scowling look. One thing they all agreed on though: she had a slate missing.

Joe sniffed. “Wonder why they left her here?”

“Her folks have gone to some poncey do,” said Viper. “They didn’t want her farting in front of the vicar or peeing in the soupcon.”

The what-son?

“The soupcon, stupid. Right, search the rest of the house.”

There was no one else. The cellar was full of dusty bottles of wine. They opened some, but it tasted like vinegar. A few bottles they smashed against the whitewashed walls in explosions of red like blood. Spuggy laughed and babbled on about dropping nuns out of helicopters. He used to be funny. Now he was just a pain. Viper told himself he’d blow him out when they got back home.

“Christ, it’s getting like cottage cheese out there. You don’t get fog like that on the Warwick estate.” Joe set half a dozen packs of Carlsberg Special Brew on the table.

“Aw, scared are we?” jeered Spuggy as he shoved a plateful of sausage and chips across the table.

“Get stuffed.” Joe stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth. A couple fell on the carpet. “I was ready for that… Jesus! Look at that!”

Viper’s patience was running thin. “What?”

“On me skin.” Joe held up his hands. “There’s something on me skin.”

“Nivea hand cream, I shouldn’t wonder,” chuckled Spuggy, stabbing a sausage.

Joe looked at his hand closely. It looked white. “You know it’s…” He licked the back of his hand. “Salt,” he announced. “I’m covered in bloody salt. Look at me jacket.” A thick film of white covered the black leather.

“It’s bloody obvious.” Viper opened a can of Carlsberg to wash the chips down. “Sea fog. And like the dippo upstairs says, the sea’s full of salt. Now eat your bastard chips before I start cracking someone.”

They ate in silence, apart from the sound of their jaws mashing sausage and chips and sucking on the cans.

Christ, this’s good, thought Viper opening his third lager. A car full of good shit to sell; more beer and food than you could ever get into your belly; a place of your own—Foggy Mansions he’d call it—and an ace-looking tart waiting upstairs for yours truly to work his own brand of magic on.

“Who do you think she is?” Viper jabbed his fork toward the ceiling.

“God knows,” said Spuggy. “Dippy tart won’t say. She won’t even tell you her name. If I were you, Viper, I’d go up there and give her a slap.”

Viper spat on the floor. “You’re not me, so I’m not. These sausages are bloody burned. Can’t you cook owt?”

Spuggy couldn’t answer back so he tried to wind up Joe, asking him when he was going to get some clothes that hadn’t been in fashion in 1966. Joe grunted and shoved his empty plates away from him. “I’m going to see if that bird wants owt to eat.”

Spuggy winked at Viper as Joe left the room. “Reckon I hurt sweetheart’s feelings.”

Viper opened another can. No doubt about it, he’d ditch Spuggy when they got back home. Okay, he’d been a mad bugger ever since they’d gone to school together. He used to be a laugh.

Now you just didn’t know what he’d do next.




“She’s legged it.” Joe stood panting in the doorway.

“You’ve checked all the rooms?” Viper was on his feet.

“All of them. She’s gone. Front door’s open.”

Viper rubbed the coiling snake tattoos on his forearm. “Well, she can’t get far.”

Spuggy smashed an empty can against the table with his fist. “What that tart needs is a good slapping.”

Viper ignored him. “Come on, let’s find her.”

Outside, the fog was thick—thicker than any fog Viper had seen before. It was like pressing your face into wet cotton wool. He licked his lips.

Sea fog. Salt. He could taste it on his lips.

“Split up,” he ordered. “She won’t be far away.”

Even though it must have been still dusk, visibility was near nil. Within half a dozen paces he could no longer see the house or the other two. Although he could hear Spuggy muttering something half-baked.

Viper worked his way along a garden path—one of those made out of broken slabs they call crazy paving. Crazy? He chuckled under his breath. Spuggy would be at home here. Crazy bastard.

The fog seemed to grow more dense. Sometimes he brushed against unseen bushes, a branch would catch his hair like bats’ claws. Christ, it was so thick you even breathed it in. He coughed. The salt taste bit his tongue. Where the hell was she?

Viper searched, tripping and sliding across the uneven path. He could see nothing. He might as well have been in a sack full of cotton wool. Hell, he could hardly see his bastard feet. The tattoo snakes on his arms began to prickle, the way they did when he began to get aggravated.

The next thing he heard was a faint roaring sound. It grew louder as he walked. He paused, listening to the sound—a constant roaring, roiling across the garden and away into the mist like a…

Sea, he told himself. Fucking sea. He wished he’d got a cigarette.

With the unseen surf roaring in the distance masking any sound, and the thickness of the fog, he found himself searching almost by touch alone.

Just as he began to think about giving up, his finger tips brushed soft fabric.

“Where did you think you were off to, luv?” Viper watched as she slowly turned to look at him with an odd blank expression. She did not speak. Viper spat into the grass. “You’ll end up losing yourself in this muck, you know.”

“The stream is all dried up.” She turned to look down into a waterless ditch. “The water doesn’t flow there any more.”

“S’been a good summer, luv.” He cringed at the thing he heard in his voice. Gentleness? Christ! Just give the bitch a clip. Or give her a damn good shag here and now in the long grass. Then send her back home with grass stains all over her arse. He’d done that before now. But he couldn’t do it to her. He couldn’t even bring himself to swear at her.

“It’s dry,” she said softly. “Look.”

He took a pace forward into the long grass and looked into the ditch. Beneath a few leaves and the odd stick, the mud was cracked and hard.

“Careful,” she said in that soft voice again. “There are snakes in the grass.”

“Snakes?” Viper gave a laugh. “What, like this, luv?” He held out his arms, showing her the crimson tattoo snakes. She gazed at them for a moment but said nothing.

He sighed. “Come on, luv. Back to the ranch.”

Viper was going to take her by the arm, but she walked purposefully ahead of him back to the house. It was only then that he noticed she wore the same short nightdress. Her feet were bare.

Now the sea fog had deposited salt on the lawn and bushes. It looked as if a thick frost had turned everything white.

“Weee-urd.” Spuggy stood by the big front door swigging lager from a can. “Out for a walk in our nightie were we, sweetheart?”

“If anyone’s weird it’s you, Spuggy,” said Joe, pushing past him to get into the house.

“Inside,” ordered Viper, “and get the blasted door shut. This fucking fog is getting on me wick.”

For a while they drank more cans of Special Brew, tossing the gold cans round the sitting room with its luxurious leather armchairs and settee. An oil painting of three black horses hung on one wall; it was as big as a garage door. The girl stared out of the window. Viper didn’t know why. The fucking fog was thicker than ever and it was as black as his granny’s armpit.

Spuggy got up and walked to the door, through into the hall. The front door slammed. He was back in three minutes, almost embarrassed.

“Can’t find the sodding van. That fog’s bleedin’ solid.”

The girl turned. “I’ll show you,” she said.

Grinning, Spuggy followed her and Viper heard him sneer under his breath. “Like a lamb to the bleedin’ slaughter.”

Pisshead. Viper opened a beer. Spuggy was gone a long time. Full cans became empty cans, and Viper and Joe slumped deeper into the armchairs too pissed to even talk. Viper drifted in and out of sleep. The room spun slowly round in a way that turned his stomach over… and over… over… and over… and…

He opened his eyes. The room was full of mist. The furniture had turned frosty white… shut that damn door… and over… and over… Spuggy’s cooked some manky sausage… ugh… Viper couldn’t see straight…

He licked his lips.

Salt. They were coated in salt.

His eyes opened. Viper saw Joe stretched out on the settee—all white—like he’d been covered in icing sugar. Christ, he wished he’d not drunk so much bloody…

“Joe. Shut the door. The fog’s in the bloody house. Joe!”

Joe did not move.

“Christ.” Muscles aching like they were wasted with AIDS, he limped across the floor. “Shift yourself.” Viper dragged Joe off the settee. He moaned and hauled himself to his feet.

In the hallway, Viper found the front door open with the fog flowing in like water through a breached dam. Bastard Spuggy. Left the bastard door open. He made it to the library.

Spuggy had been working.

“Christ, the mad bastard,” grunted Viper, and spat. Salt bit his tongue and burnt his throat.

Spuggy had set up two of the nicked camcorders on tripods; a color television showed the image of a teenage girl tied to book shelving.

It was no film. The camcorder pointed at the weird girl with the long hair and short nightie. Spuggy had tied her to the shelves with curtain cords. Her face was expressionless.

“Damn. I’ll find Spuggy, Joe. You stay here, you look like shit.”

“Feel like it,” Joe grunted. He leaned against the wall, his hair, face, clothes, leather jacket all white.

Viper looked at his own arms. The tattoo snakes had vanished, obliterated by a coating of salt. Forcing his shaking legs to move, Viper began a search of the house.

Empty room upon empty room. Fancy four-poster beds, dressing rooms, bathrooms with gold taps. No Spuggy. Bastard.

As Viper trotted down a long passageway, he almost cracked into Spuggy. The idiot was carrying a portable TV and what looked like an ornamental dagger with a blade as long as your arm.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Viper tried to spit the salt out of his burning mouth.

Spuggy’s eyes blazed. Viper had never seen the man so excited. “Snuff movie,” Spuggy panted, dribbling. “Snuff movie.” He pushed past Viper and hurried downstairs.

Thrash the bastard. Viper nodded to himself. Thrash the bastard, let him know who’s boss. Aching, he followed.

This place… Viper shook his head dizzily. He opened his eyes to find himself outside the library, on his knees. How long had he been like that?

He hauled himself through the doorway. Even though mist and salt bleached out whole chunks of the scene, he could see enough. He could see enough…

Joe had changed. No, he was white. He had lost his edges to the burning whiteness. Viper lurched toward him. Joe leaned against the wall where Viper had left him but he was coated in white a centimeter, two centimeters, thick.

Salt.

“Joe?” Viper’s voice was a faint croak.

“Don’t bother. He’s dead,” called Spuggy callously. He was adjusting the position of the camcorders, the pictures on the two sets swinging drunkenly every time he kicked at the leg of a tripod. The girl tied to the bookshelves watched him impassively.

Viper looked at Joe’s salt-caked face. The features were almost all gone. He was…

No, no. Viper looked into his eyes. They were covered by a thickening film of salt, but he could see Joe’s blue eyes. And they were moving rapidly from side to side with the quick movements of a frightened baby.

Spuggy spoke cheerfully. “Gonna do a snuff movie, Viper.”

“No.”

“Who’s gonna stop me, Viper?”

“Me.” Viper tried to take a step, but he could not move his feet. He tried to raise his arms, then to twist his torso. He couldn’t. His whole body was thickening with salt. Stiff. It was as if he was turning to stone.

Bastard! Bastard legs, bastard arms… It was getting difficult to breathe; his vision came and went in gouts of white. Sort of misty.

Viper could only watch as Spuggy switched on the camcorder. On the portable was a medium shot of Joe now entombed in salt, like an Egyptian mummy swathed in white. Just a white amorphous blob.

The other TV showed the girl, her head turned away as if trying to see through the window. Viper no longer saw her face. His head was frozen. Only Spuggy and the girl seemed free of the settling salt.

Then Spuggy had the dagger with its vicious blade cutting the mist. You could have sliced up a whole bullock with that thing.

Spuggy waved the knife in front of him and Viper realized he was showing it to the cameras. On the large screen, he saw the girl turn her head to face the camera.

Jesus, it must be the booze. Viper shuddered. He struggled to draw in breath, his eyes locked onto the picture of the girl’s face. Christ, yes, it was the booze. Just pissed, Viper old son, just pissed.

Now he recognized the girl’s face.

Forget her long hair. Somehow the face reminded him of how he looked when he was thirteen or fourteen. Sort of clean, unlived in, innocent. The same shaped eyes and nose with a spattering of freckles.

Spuggy stabbed her. Once. Twice. Three times. Slowly.

But it wasn’t right. He must have missed, cut himself somehow. Spuggy had split his right forearm open from elbow to wrist; blood washed down his legs like the red wine they had splashed about the cellar earlier.

He stabbed again.

This time he only managed to pierce his groin with the steel blade. He was yelling and swearing and screaming. He blundered against the tripods sending the pictures swinging wildly on the TVs.

Viper could only hear dimly. Spuggy’s face was just a mask, blown up like a Halloween balloon twisting and splitting in pain and fury.

He struck again at the girl’s breast.

Again he missed and the huge blade ended up lodged deep in his ribs just above his belly. The screaming mask face seemed to deflate and Spuggy flopped limply down.

On the screen, Viper could just make out the girl. She was unhurt. Her face, expressionless, still looked how he once did as a boy. She was watching him. He sensed she wanted to help him but didn’t know how. Or maybe he simply didn’t know how to ask for her help.

Christ, he wished he could breathe. He was locked solid in this concrete hard salt crust. Suffocating.

On the portable TV he saw himself. A large white blob. Like a maggot or an insect pupa. Motionless.

I’ll get through this. I will live. I’ll drive that vanful of shit back to that stinking slum in the backside of Yorkshire. All it needs is willpower. I’m alive.

Keep saying it, Viper, mate. Say it Viper.

Say it, you bastard! SAY IT!

I’m alive…

I AM ALIVE.

I AMM ALLI-IVE!

I I I AM—I AM

I… I I… I I I I I I




LADY’S PORTRAIT, EXECUTED IN ARCHAIC COLORS

by Charles M. Saplak







Charles M. Saplak was born April, 1960 in Beckley, West Virginia. He’s worked at numerous jobs, including a six-year stint in the Navy during which he traveled the Mediterranean Sea and Atlantic, Indian, and Pacific Oceans on the aircraft carrier USS Saratoga. He lives now in Radford, Virginia with his wife and six-year-old daughter Charlene. He’s published poems and stories in the past few years in places like Expanse, Argonaut, Urbanite, Terminal Fright, and in the Horror’s Head Press Noctulpa anthologies. He’s just finished a historical/fantasy novel entitled The Four Talismans, which is to be the first in a five book series. He needs an agent and/or publisher.

Saplak would like to acknowledge the encouragement and inspiration of Alayne Gelfand, editor of Prisoners of the Night. He had her market in mind when writing this story, and when he missed her deadline, she encouraged him to try elsewhere, which got the story into the Writers of the Future Contest. That’s known as landing on your feet.





Cerulean blue is the color of a cloudless sky.

Sandra watched the sky lighten over the city. She struggled to keep from feeling depressed these days. It was getting near the end of March and spring was late in coming. She would be thirty-five this spring.

“You’re young,” she said to herself, out loud. “Cheer up, you big baby.” Still, when she looked at the sky, she got that feeling, as if she should cry. The sky here was the same sky that people were looking up to in China and Africa. Over the royal family in England and orphans in Vietnam, it was the same sky.

Only a few windows in the buildings she could see showed lights. A lot of the apartments had curtains drawn. She was used to seeing the city wake up as she got ready to sleep. She’d been on the night shift at Sacred Heart for the past four months, where she was an ICU nurse.

Her attention was drawn to one large square of light in the building directly opposite hers. In one of the top floor studio apartments a man worked at a canvas on an easel; directly across the room from him a woman sat on a sort of stool or chair over which a dark cloth was draped.

Sandra was by no means prudish, nor was she a voyeur, but she couldn’t help but be fascinated by this tableau before her. The man was frantically painting; from palette to canvas his arms made broad, bold gestures. Sandra watched for a few minutes before she noticed that the woman was totally naked.

As the morning sunlight hit the window directly, it created a glare through which Sandra could no longer see. She stood for a moment, then stepped well back from the window to remove her own clothes, to prepare for bed. As she undressed she looked back to the window, reassuring herself that no one could see in. Visible to her through the window at this angle was nothing but the cloudless sky.




Red madder is extracted from fields of flower.

The city has a population of approximately one hundred and twenty-six thousand, including homeless and transients who do not appear on any census, voters’ register, or tax roster. Also included are an undisclosed number of criminals whose dealings are mainly cash, designed to leave no traceable records.

The population of the city fluctuates. The Hopeful arrive. The Disillusioned leave. Births. Deaths. This cycle of population is somewhat like the breathing of a tremendous sleeping beast, like a biological cycle of an animal.

In any given day apartments are left vacant; families are seemingly deserted; automobiles are abandoned to rust and vandalism; houses are left filled or half-filled with belongings. People seemingly vanish.

Some of these disappearances create quite a stir, depending on the visibility of the vanished, and upon the intricacy and depth of their relationships with those they left behind.

The people of the city enjoy a sort of privacy in numbers, a sort of chosen anonymity.

As that winter turned over to spring, numerous single, “unattached” women disappeared, relatively unnoticed.




Ochres harmonize a scene through their dulling qualities.

The intensive care unit at Sacred Heart has the qualities of a chapel, a sepulcher, a spacecraft module, a mortuary, a medieval prison. The ward has room for eight patients. The patients are separated by opaque curtains of off-white; the ceilings, walls, and floor are coordinated in the most neutral tones of beige, ecru, ivory.

Some of the patients hallucinate and frequently speak to dead friends or relatives. Others are not conscious. Some are attended by their own watchful friends or relatives in three-minute periods every two hours. Still others are alone. Most are attached to machinery designed to monitor, regulate, control, or even stimulate anatomical functions of living.

Sandra moves among these people every night. She is competent and professional, and she often reminds herself of the necessity for compassion, the importance of maintaining perspective in difficult situations.

She sometimes cries without knowing it.

She is meticulous and conscientious in matters of recordkeeping and maintenance.

Often her work causes her to touch people, making skin-to-skin contact, as they die.




Viridian is somewhat transparent, but withstands the ravages of light as it ages.

By accident, Sandra met the painter soon after that. She had stopped off in a coffee shop near her apartment, and there he was, sitting at one of the booths. She couldn’t have explained exactly how she knew it was he; she just knew. He had greenish eyes and hair of an indistinct color which was thinning, but which was thinning all over, not in the usual pattern. He had a sketch pad open on the table top in front of him. A cup of weak-looking tea sat cooling near his right hand; the morning light passed through faint vapors of steam above the cup. His hands were exceptionally slender and his fingers exceptionally long. His right hand was poised over the blank page of the sketch book, and his ring finger was bent so that the pad of the fingertip could rest on the paper. He moved his finger in a lazy, slow, delicate circle, over and over.

“I recognize you,” he said.

Sandra realized that she had been staring. Her eyes met his and she was ready to turn away in embarrassment, but something stopped her. His face was so open and relaxed, so natural, he was like a sleepy child.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and smiled back.

“Don’t apologize. Sometimes that’s what life is like. Recognition. The statue hidden within the stone, the spirit hidden within the body. Or the picture within the page.”

He held up the sketch pad and Sandra saw that there was a picture there, a woman unclothed, totally without tension, more like a spirit than a person, but just as the woman’s body was uncurled and open, so was her face unlocked, and her eyes open and streaming tears. But actually, as Sandra blinked, she saw that the page was in fact blank and held no picture there. Undoubtedly the previous six hours at Sacred Heart had made her susceptible to imagination.

“Maybe I’ll paint you someday,” he said.

“Stranger things have happened,” Sandra answered, and it wasn’t a yes and it wasn’t a no, but after eight years in this city—this city of rapists and con artists—she was surprised to hear herself say it.

She turned back to her toast and apple juice, and felt his eyes on her back, but it wasn’t exactly an unpleasant sensation like it could have been, so she turned back again, and of course he was gone.




Indigo is obtained from roots of the plant of that name. It fades.

“That corner is having a bad night,” her supervisor, Nurse Mitchell, says, glancing at Sandra over her hornrimmed glasses. “She may not last.”

Sandra nods but thinks: That woman is not “that corner.” She is not “bed number eight.” She is not “the subject.” She is not the three-hundred-and-forty dollar per day Medicare payment. She has a name, a life. She still has a name, a life.

That night Sandra adjusts a heparin lock on the wrist of that woman. She moves with sure, gentle motions. Even through the narcotics the wrist and arm respond to pain. In the dim fluorescence Sandra notices the ancient skin. Sandra notices the pigmentation which looks dull but in fact contains myriad colors of the spectrum, the purplish bruise, bluish veins, the pale white of scars, the dull pink of feminine skin, and as the needle of the IV is seated within the lock the plastic tube is momentarily touched with the deep night indigo of human blood.

I will be alone in a bed like this someday. This will be me.

She may not last.




Umber is important for shadows.

In the bathroom in his apartment, Sandra undressed. As a nurse, Sandra had seen nude people hundreds of times. She hadn’t imagined that she would feel so uncomfortable removing her clothes here and putting on the chenille bathrobe he had advised her to bring for covering up when taking a break.

He was standing by his easel when Sandra entered, laying out tubes and jars of paint, arranging rows of brushes, glancing into the canvas. He mixed some tubes of pigment in with binders which reminded Sandra of thick lymphatic substance. She pulled back the shoulders of the robe, pulled it off completely, folded it and set it away from where he had an off-white cloth draped over a small padded chair.

With her clothes off, in the warm room, she had the fleeting sensation that her breasts were inadequate. Whenever she had undressed before a man for the first time, she had been very conscious of her breasts. All the hideous, silly teenager thoughts—will he think they’re too small, too large, the “right” shape?—all of these melted away as he looked at her. She somehow knew that in his eyes, she just was.

He took up some paint on a palette knife and started on the canvas. His arm moved with bold, confident strokes. She sat still, and when he looked at her again she said, “Do you want me to sit like this?”

She struck a pose which she imagined to be a painter’s subject’s pose—chin tilted slightly upward, shoulders back.

He smiled, but he seemed to be a little distracted. He was like a doctor involved with a patient, lost in that sort of concentration. “Oh, you don’t need to sit still. I’m not putting you in any sort of pose. I’m looking at you for reference, but I’d prefer that you move, that you act natural. Otherwise, it’s too much like painting a corpse. And you also need to, um…” He gestured at her waist with his brush.

She stood up. She normally wore cotton, but for some reason today she had worn a ninety-ten orlon/spandex blend. She liked the feel of it. She kept her eyes on him (he stared into the canvas, seemingly oblivious) and reached behind her midriff. She slipped the middle and ring fingers of each hand into the waistband of her panties and smoothly slid them down off her backside, down her thighs and shins, and stepped out of them. Between some people there are no secrets.

After about twelve minutes of sitting there in the mid-morning sunlight she said, “Have you ever done that?”

“Done what?”

“Painted a corpse.”

He kept his eyes on the canvas. He swiftly moved the brush back and forth from the canvas to the palette. The brush held an umber and gray blob of paint. She wasn’t sure if he was going to answer or not.

“Yes,” he said.




Chrome yellow, in its original form, is exceptionally brilliant—as in Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers”—but with the centuries it transmutes to a macabre greenish-black.

The boy was carried by wagon to the castle of the Count.

The castle was a stone and beam tower surrounded by a wall. It dominated the hillside and was silhouetted in the dusky light like a brooding, armored and cloaked figure.

Count Senescau had had once been described by his official chroniclers as “Senescau the Great, Father to Orphans, Patron to Widows, Eye of the Blind, Foot of the Lame.” But he had traveled to the Orient during the Crusades, and when he returned he was said to be suffering from some rare unspeakable disease, some disorder which beset him during campaigns in the Balkans and Carpathians.

It was whispered that the Count was blind; it was rumored that he was decomposing and could not tolerate sunlight or fresh air; it was feared that he had become mad and had abandoned Christian philosophies and beliefs for Eastern occult practices.

The boy was admitted into the castle. He trembled. He thought that he would die there.

In the donjon Jews and children were held. Hooded men worked with flaying tools and pinions. None of the cries pierced the stone floor.

The boy was led into a great hall. Count Senescau sat upon a throne carved of ebony and bone. The throne was carved with draconian motifs of claw-and-ball feet, heavily tendoned and scaled reptilian arms, with a riser back on which was carved in bas-relief the screaming face of a dragon.

Two distant torches illuminated the great hall. In their flickering light the Count appeared to be eaten by the shadows, appeared to be a skeleton gauzed in a greenish-black skin.

The Count spoke. His lips barely moved and his eyelids were merest slits through which the boy could see coal-black eyes.

“My clergy tells me that you were caught in a sunflower field with a girl from the neighboring farm. True?”

The boy nodded.

“And she was naked? You looked upon her? Learned her… secrets?”

He nodded again.

A slight smile played over the Count’s face, although it could have been a trick of the lamplight. As his lips parted slightly, the boy saw cruel teeth. The Count reached beside the throne and picked up something to pass to the boy. It was a leaf of hand-pulped and pressed rice paper, a crow quill, and a cork-stoppered jar of ink. (Or was it ink? It was a fluid which reflected the torchlight in glittering scarlet and indigo highlights.)

The Count spoke. “Draw my castle. Draw it from memory. You saw it as you rode up. Draw it. Pour your soul and your will and mind into that quill; place them outside your body for me to see. Your success or failure at this will determine your fate.”

The boy took the tools and crouched on the stone floor before the Count. The lamps failed to cast enough light for him to see the paper. It didn’t matter.

Occasionally the Count leaned forward to stare into the paper over the boy’s shoulder. The scratching of the pen on the grainy tooth of the rice paper was like the scrabbling of myriad tiny claws within the stone walls.




Later, the lamps weren’t burning as brightly and the shadows had deepened. The air in the reception hall had chilled. The boy set down the pen and leaned back away from the paper. The Count reached down and took up the sheet.

He stared into it for a long time. The castle was rendered in perfect detail, but the boy had betrayed himself. The buttresses and parapets of the tower gave the structure the subtle but distinct appearance of a man in aristocratic armor and cloak. The castle walls were cross-hatched to a shade of black similar to an etching, and embedded in the crosshatch patterns were dark and twisted forms, like the insides of a slaughtered animal.

“Don’t you wish that you could capture it all, boy? Don’t you wish that you could somehow go beyond the limits of ink and paint and paper, that your eye could see the Beyond, that you could reach through the Illusion into the Truth? It can be done, boy, and you can have it, at a price…”

The Count somehow—the boy saw no spark or torch nearby—set fire to the sheet, and held it in his hand while it burned.

As if that were a signal to some hidden attendants, tapestries were pulled aside and women padded into the hall. Unseen instruments which the boy couldn’t identify began a throbbing, Oriental song of hypnotic complexity. The women were naked except for various bracelets of gold around their wrists and ankles, and necklaces inlaid with darkly gleaming stones. Some of the jewelry was fashioned with staple loops, as if the jewelry was designed to double as instruments of forcible restraint. Most of the women were anointed and oiled and perfumed so that the hair on their bodies glistened with beaded droplets like delicate flowers or spider webs coated with hot morning dew. Pungent spicey scents from the women curled to the boy’s nostrils like invisible snakes.

The women began to dance.

The boy watched, his body responding. The Count leaned forward with a rusting sound and whispered into the boy’s ear. “What do you see? What do you see?”

He couldn’t answer. The women were exquisite beyond words.

“Man’s confounder?” the Count suggested.

“Luscious sin?

“Mad beast?

“Stinking rose?

“Sweet venom?

“Sad Paradise?”




Black, obtained by burning organic substances to render pure carbon, is not recommended for the painter’s palette. Black effects will better be gained by mixtures of complementary colors.

The form on the canvas stunned Sandra. The painter smiled at her as he looked at her face. “Like it?”

“It’s marvelous. It’s me. It’s like a photograph.”

He grimaced from where he stood straightening up his brushes and palette. “Photography? I always said that won’t last.”

“But I mean it’s me, it’s like looking into a mirror. That’s amazing.”

“Just good draftmanship,” he said, shrugging.

“I have one question,” Sandra said. “Why is it all black and white and gray?”

He looked back at the picture and then to Sandra. He looked into her eyes briefly and she noticed that he could well have been very old. He seemed vital and spry, but he also seemed dignified, and somewhat weathered.

“That’s an underpainting. I do your form in the minutest detail, completely. Then in the next two sittings all of the color will be added, and that’s when it will come alive.”

Sandra couldn’t take her eyes from the canvas. It was her. It was realistic, and showed her every fold and curve and nuance. She had lately started to think of herself as unattractive, but she realized as she looked at the picture that that wasn’t so, that she was beautiful, perhaps more beautiful than she had ever been or had ever hoped to be.

With a start she realized that her robe was open, and that her left breast, her belly, the triangle of hair between her legs and her left leg were all in plain view to the painter. Inexplicably, she felt a wave of shyness, and quickly closed her robe. She immediately chided herself for not being logical since he had just been staring at her fully naked for over three hours.

“You know, since I haven’t seen anything else you’ve painted, I guess I was a little afraid that you might be one of those, uh, abstract-type artists.”

“Afraid that I would reduce you to blobs and squiggles? Don’t be afraid of that. I’d never do that; I’m too interested in capturing things as they really are. Those other people aren’t artists, they’re symptoms. They can’t really draw and they’ve cowed blind and insecure people who are phonier than they are into buying into their charade.”

Emotions started to coalesce within her. This man, this older man, said this in such a confident, quiet way, it reassured her. His face, a mix of youthful wonder and an almost ancient maturity, was so contradictory it fascinated her. If there was anything that could be said for certain about him, it was that he knew how to look at a woman. He knew how to see.

She noticed that he rubbed his hands delicately as if they were sore, as if they might be arthritic, or as if possibly his skin was irritated by exposure to the oils and solvents and binders he worked with every day. She felt an almost uncontrollable urge to take his hands in hers.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said. “I serve the Old Masters.”




Sepia is extracted as an ink from cuttle fish. It is impermanent.

Sandra, in order to accommodate the painter’s wish for her to sit for her portrait over three straight days in the early morning, had to shift her sleep time to the afternoon. With her shades drawn and the door to her bedroom closed, she lay between the sheets and waited for sleep. She found that she was tired, not just because she’d shifted her sleep time back, but the act of sitting for a portrait seemed to take so much more out of her than she had expected.

As she lay there, she had time to reflect on her life. She sensed that she needed direction, that she had to rethink her purpose. She felt, as sleep started to overcome her, that there was some insight to be had, that the key to her problem was just within her grasp.

In a world filled with people who were tremendously unhappy, people who were miserable, Sandra felt a sort of dull hollowness, and she realized why. She had no standard. Her family, her youth in an ugly little factory town, her divorce, the boyfriends, all started to burn into a sort of colorless past. She had her work now, but she didn’t have any goals there, or any ambitions beyond what she was doing. She couldn’t help but think of herself as a reliable but replaceable part in a machine. She couldn’t stop the parade of death she saw every day, and she had, without knowing it, become resigned to it.

With this insight she gave herself up to a sound, restful sleep. The things she had cut out of her life—religion, ambition, desire, intimacy—could be sources of great pain, but they could also be possible keys to becoming involved again.

In her sleep, she occasionally turned. She reached out with her arm as she turned to her side. She drew up one leg to rest bent on the mattress and support her. Her motions and gestures were such as one would expect from a person sleeping with a companion.




Cinnabar has on occasion remained unaltered for five centuries or more, and in other cases has blackened completely in a matter of weeks.

He spoke as he painted, much more so that second sitting than the first.

“The sad thing about paint is that it fails. It inevitably fails. The work and the painters we admire are special because they are the most spectacular and tragic failures.

“You cannot capture the visual effects of the sun, the moon, or the stars. Light is dynamic and living. Fire or electricity can never be captured onto canvas. These phenomena strike and stimulate the eye with a dynamic play of light which can only be feebly suggested on canvas by pigment in binder. A properly spaced white slash, surrounded by darkness of sufficient richness, may strike the viewer as brilliant light, but the effect will only be a pale imitation of life. The medium fails, even in the hands of the most accomplished master.

“And living things? They can’t be captured either, not by mere paint. The luster of the living, seeing eye can only be adequately suggested by daubs of slick white suggesting a wet surface. With the right interplay of underpaint a woman’s body can be suggested in the mass of the forms, in the glisten of the skin, in the warmth and pulsation of blood beneath the surface, but it’s all just a suggestion, an illusion.”

As he spoke, he furiously looked back and forth from Sandra to the palette to the canvas. He was glazing the underpainting and the brush in his hands looked like a criminal knife as he flashed it through cinnabar, carmine, madder lake, alizarin, and chrome. The reds were affirmation; he balanced them with denials of gamboge, sepia, sienna, mango, and lapus lazuli.

Every motion of his hands over the surface of the canvas was, as Sandra watched him from across the studio, enormously suggestive, and gave her involuntary thoughts. Her skin and the canvas were surfaces which were entirely accessible to him. Could he not notice an unusual pertness in her? Could he not see an unusual glistening, a slickness if he looked closely enough, and in the right place? She imagined that if the sun and moon and stars were all to fade to darkness that he would be able to detect a glow emanating from her and find her in that encompassing night.

When he finally set down his brushes, it was well after noon. He invited Sandra to come look at the result.

Two days before, she would have been stunned to see a man pour so much insight, so much vision into mere paint and canvas. Two days before she wouldn’t have believed that anyone would be able to find anything attractive about her, much less be able to look within her and find such solid, absolute beauty. But that was then, and now she knew differently. She looked at herself there on the square of stretched canvas and saw a woman of form and feeling, the black, white, and gray now overlaid with swaths of hue and warmth.

“I’m very impressed,” she said softly.

She had the belt of the robe loosely tied before her. As she turned slightly to face the painter it opened again, just as it had the day before. She knew from the coolness and motion of the air against her skin that she was revealed to him. He was close enough to reach and touch her if he so chose. She didn’t feel any of the shyness she had yesterday, and she didn’t look down at herself but kept her eyes on his, watching for any sign that he was taking advantage of this opportunity for a closer look.

The painter, with his young-old aspect, now looked very tired. He slouched forward a little and his eyes were reddish around the viridian green irises, the skin somewhat dark and encircled around the sockets.

“I’m a little hungry,” she said. “I could certainly do for some lunch.” Please say you’d like to spend some time with me. Please say you want something more from me. I’ve got a lot to give.

But the painter set down his tools and walked away, a little unsteadily. “I’m—I’m tired,” he said. “Very tired. Sometimes I forget that it takes a lot of out of me, too. It’s hard work, although it may not look it.”

“Of course,” she said. She hoped her disappointment wouldn’t show. If anyone can see me, really see me, it’s you!

“Forgive me. Forgive me. I’m tired,” he said, and walked out of the studio to the small back room which held his bed.

Sandra dressed, looking at the portrait. He knows I’m beautiful, but does he want me? She looked into the room where he lay on the bed. She went in to stand over him. He hardly breathed as he lay there. His skin was pale, but a close look revealed that it held a myriad array of colors.

Sandra bent over and lightly brushed her lips against his. Then she left, and didn’t lock the door behind her.




Bitumen, used as an underpainting, enables gleaming heavenly effects, but will bleed and blacken with time, as in the “Black Madonnas” of Czentochau.

That night, two of Sandra’s patients in ICU died.

When the oldest woman there passed away (no, died) she did so with the silent inevitability of a blossom closing at sunset. Only the machines monitoring her vital functions gave any sounds, any external signs. The alarms of these machines Sandra disabled with the simple gestures of flipping switches and depressing buttons.

Later, the second patient expired.

An eleven-year-old boy in a coma, a bicycle accident victim, regained partial consciousness to scream once before his life ended. The scream woke some of the patients who had enough strength and resistance to sedation to hear it. When the boy was pronounced lost (not lost, dead) by the shift physician, Sandra had to place the sheets over his face, a face which now looked both young and old, both wise and yet innocent.

Because there was a wait for the orderly to transport the boy from ICU to the morgue on the basement level of Sacred Heart, Sandra had to pull the off-white curtained dividers around the boy’s bed so that he would be out of the possible fields of vision of the living.

As she did this, she remembered this phrase: “In the midst of life we are in death.” Another time she stood beside a grave as she watched a Christian burial, the interment of a body into sanctified earth. It was long ago. As she stood behind the curtains with the boy’s body, she couldn’t control the memories within and had a heightened ability to recall details of her past. She remembered that the phrase was not from the Bible but from the Book of Common Prayer, and thence not the word of God but the word of men, although she had long ago left the belief system which would make that a relevant point. She felt a momentary urge to bend over and kiss the lips of that dead boy.

Only several hours ago she had slipped into the darkness of sleep and had been comforted by her conviction that there were choices available, choices which would mean life.




Carmine is a calm, dignified reddish tone which requires the sacrifice of various female insects found on thistles.

Sandra left work early that night. With the ICU now more than half empty, the shift could be turned over to one other nurse, and Sandra could be released to be on call. The ubiquitous shift supervisor, Nurse Mitchell, told Sandra that she looked peaked, that she should be concerned with possible anemia. She seemed to be solicitous of the possible emotional effects on Sandra of seeing two patients die.

It was still dark when Sandra left. She didn’t bother to change her uniform in the nurses’ lounge. As she left Sacred Heart, she walked through a night which had become almost supernaturally dark. There was no moon, and no stars were visible. The normal smoggy glow of evening over the city seemed muted.

Sandra felt a sort of exhilaration as she walked away from the electric hum and fluorescent glow of the hospital. She had just watched two people die, had just touched two people who had died, and now she was walking away. She was alive.

When she arrived at her apartment building, she parked in her usual parking spot then, without giving the matter too much thought, walked across the street to the building where the painter had his studio apartment.

She took the elevator up to his floor. The door to his apartment was still unlocked.

She didn’t turn on the lights in his apartment. The muted glow of the city and the reflection of the city’s light on the moist full clouds which blocked the stars served as her only guide. This light shone through the enormous picture window of the studio and illuminated the scene as distant torchlight, giving the easels and stacks of stretched canvases and tabletops covered with paint in tubes and jars something of a menacing appearance, as one might expect from a medieval torture chamber.

Sandra picked her way through these obstacles to the door of his bedroom. This room had no windows, and he apparently had no electric clock or any other possible source of illumination. Still, a dim light plainly showed the painter in repose there, his arm and his leg reaching out to support him lying on his side, in the manner of a person in bed with a companion.

Sandra stood in his doorway, certain that if he woke he would see and recognize her by an unexplainable glow. She wore her nurse’s uniform, and thus was dressed entirely in white. Her skirt and blouse were a crisp polycotton blend, and fit snugly around her hips, waist, and bosom. She wore white panties and white pantyhose, as well as a white lace bra. Standing there she slipped off her shoes, then continued with the rest of her clothes. The clothes were repressive; they hid secrets she wanted to share.

The painter stirred slightly as she stared at him. She was now nude. Could not even a sleeping man perceive when his environment changed with the addition of a living, breathing, warm person?

He did seem to be slightly aware of her, but he stirred a little as if absorbed in a dream.

She stepped forward and slipped beneath the covers. She reached out and touched him with her hands, then closed her eyes and rubbed her palms over him. She felt as if she were entering a secret world; she concentrated her entire being into her hands. She tried to read every sensation there—texture, temperature, shape, the rhythm of his blood, any tiny movements in his musculature, any indications that he felt and was responding to her touch.

He stirred beside her. She moved her face closer to his, felt the warmth there. She softly pressed her face against the side of his neck and jaw, then opened her lips slightly to kiss him. She let her mouth rest there for a few moment, then moved her tongue between her teeth to taste him, tickle his skin.

He awoke and didn’t say anything. He reached for her. Between some people there are no secrets.




With the morning Sandra awoke intertwined with the painter. She rested there for a few minutes, and considered waking him. She decided not to; he looked peaceful. His face seemed less contradictory, less of a combination of the very old and the very young.

She slipped out of bed and put on her blouse. She left the bedroom and pulled the door almost closed behind her, leaving the sleeping painter behind in darkness.

She went to the bathroom and washed her face, then looked at herself in the mirror. And how many days ago had she looked out her window to see this man painting a naked woman? How many days ago had she stared at the sky and felt like crying under the weight of some vague, displaced sadness? She had the sense that her life was made up in fact of many lives, and that she was at a junction where one was ending and another beginning.

Her hair was a mess, and she didn’t have makeup on. (She never wore it to the night shift.) Still, the memories of last night gave her a look of warmth and vitality she hadn’t seen for years.

She left the bathroom and went back into his studio. The place which had looked in the dim light of last night like a torture chamber now looked like a typical man’s workshop. She looked around and felt teenagerlike feelings of infatuation—these are the brushes he takes in his hands; these are the colors he mixes to his liking.

She felt an urge to see his kitchen. She knew she was being silly, moving way too fast, playing little imagination games. She also knew that she deserved it. Her life wasn’t over.

His kitchen was clean. His cupboard held almost nothing, just a few simple juice glasses. They were all washed and set upside down on a square of white cloth. She picked one up, looking for signs of his lips on the glass. She would very much have liked to place her lips on that slick surface where his had been. But the glass (which was curiously colorless, like laboratory glass, unlike the ferrous or gold-based crystal most people used) had been washed spotless.

Sandra found no food in the kitchen, and found the refrigerator unplugged, its door propped open for ventilation.

The most disappointing discovery was that he had no coffee, no tea, nor anything which looked suitable for boiling water.

She went back into the studio. She glanced into his bedroom through the slightly opened door, and saw that he hadn’t stirred. He was worn out, she thought, and blushed.

She looked at her portrait, nearly finished, sitting on the easel. Her experience of looking into the mirror a few minutes before paled beside her sensations as she glanced into the canvas panel. The flesh tone held, upon close scrutiny, myriad colors of the spectrum, blended in swaths of contradiction and complement. As she looked into the eyes she felt a sudden dizziness, as if she had just glimpsed a great distance, or, more accurately, had glanced downward from a great height.

The textures of her body, ranging from the wet slickness of the eyes to the smooth-wool place between her legs, were all captured perfectly. The temperature of a living body, the warmth, was also captured through his cunning use of undertones and glazes. Looking at the large forms and musculature of her thighs, rib cage, shoulders and breasts, one could see that the pulsing internal structures of night blood indigo had been suggested through an unexplainably skillful use of color.

She broke her gaze away from the image on the canvas. She didn’t feel any of the satisfaction, the ability to name and remember, which a person could usually get from studying a picture closely then looking away. She felt as if she still had some bond to the portrait, some need to look at it. With this feeling of some important thing left undone, she walked away from the easel, almost feeling as if the eyes of the picture (her own eyes) were on her back.

The apartment consisted of the studio, with its enormous windows, and four other rooms which could all be entered from the studio. She had been in the kitchen, the bathroom, and the bedroom, and now there was one door through which she hadn’t walked. For a fleeting moment she felt like a busybody, but she immediately discounted that feeling. She didn’t consider that he might want to keep anything secret from her.

Besides, she wanted to keep occupied until he woke up. They could go out together for some breakfast, or maybe he would want to stay in together for awhile, perhaps even go back to bed, before they started work again on the portrait.

She opened the door to the small room. Her first impression, in the dim light, was that she had entered a room full of strangers. It was as if the light she admitted into the small room (not much more than a walk-in closet, really) startled the people there, revealed them somehow, caught them in some private, not-to-be-shared act. She felt numerous eyes looking at her, expressing an almost unbearable pleading.

But there was nothing strange in that room, nothing for her to fear. There were other portraits, pictures of other women, arranged around the walls and shelves of the small room in rows and tiers, unceremoniously hung or stacked from floor to ceiling. This arrangement was partially to blame for Sandra’s initial impression of entering some chamber occupied by numerous trapped people, the impression of entering a dark prison, of offering pitiful people a glimpse of light and life normally denied them.

“What are you doing in there?”

Sandra jumped, startled. He was awake, and had put on a pair of khaki slacks and an emerald green shirt.

“I was just looking around. How long did it take you to do these?”

He took Sandra by the wrist and—gently—tugged her back from the room and shut the door. As the door closed, Sandra glanced over her shoulder and had the illusory impression that the eyes of the women in the portraits hardened, narrowed with pain and envy. She felt tired and needed some breakfast. It was amazing how susceptible a person could become.

After the door closed the painter led Sandra over to the “subject’s chair.” He looked calm but preoccupied. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I was just looking around.”

She sat down, slipping her wrist out of his grip. “This isn’t a very nice way to say ‘good morning.’ ” She reached out to put her hand on his chest.

He drew away and she had a sinking feeling. It was all wrong. She’d acted like a horny, love-smitten kid, had forced herself on him, and now she was coming on so strong she scared him. Enter love, exit dignity and common sense.

He walked over to the canvas. Sandra had the weirdest feeling that she was unimportant, that his real interest was in the painting. Tears came to her, and with blurred vision she watched the painter speak to the canvas. “You shouldn’t have done it. You should not have done any of it. Forgive me, please!”

Sandra walked over to where he stood. She reached out to take him in her arms, and did so, but he stood unyielding, and seemingly didn’t even see her. His eyes remained locked onto the eyes of the portrait. He stood as rigid as a corpse and felt cold against Sandra’s chest through the thin material of her uniform blouse.

She let him go. He seemed to be totally absorbed with the portrait. Well, so be it, Sandra thought. Even if that is his sole interest in me, I can live with that. It could be infinitely worse.

She turned away and went back to the subject’s chair. The sunlight gave everything in the room a crisp, almost unreal appearance. “Will we finish the portrait today?” she asked.

When he answered, he answered the portrait. “No. I’m not going to complete you. I will not, I will not…”

Sandra felt as if something was tearing inside. “Please don’t be that way,” she said.

Somehow—Sandra could see no lighter or matches nearby—the painter set the canvas afire by reaching out and touching it.

The effect on Sandra was both horrifying and immediate. She felt as if she were burning from the inside out. She dropped to the floor and clawed at the air. Sharp teeth of flame clamped on every surface deep inside her body. Her skin crawled and ached like water thrown onto a white-hot iron surface. Yet the feeling was an illusion; she could see that her arms, her fingers, her legs remained smooth and unhurt. Knowing this didn’t help her as eldritch pain caressed her flesh.

Her vision clouded to a distant and dignified red, and she watched the next events unfold. She became a passive observer, thinking weakly, I’m going into shock.

The painter took the off-white cloth which he had used for background on his subjects. He spread it on the floor beside her. Then he disappeared into the bedroom, quickly returning with a pair of his trousers. He gently put them on Sandra. She didn’t resist. The pain had subsided.

Behind the painter the easel was a framework of flame, and bits of the canvas had turned to ash and had drifted through the air. On his palette table a container of turpentine or some similar solvent puffed into flame. The ceiling started to blacken as the flames grew.

After he had put the trousers on Sandra, he placed her gently onto the off-white cloth. He wrapped her up, leaving only her face exposed, and lifted her. He appeared to be totally calm. He also appeared to have no trouble lifting Sandra. The studio was now filling with smoke, and flames covered half of it.

He carried Sandra out the door and down the hall to the elevator. He held her while they waited for the car. After the door opened and he set her inside, he looked into her face and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll watch the display from up here and make sure you get to the ground floor. Somebody will get you there. If something happens, I’ll come get you.” He leaned over and kissed her lips.

She tried to speak, thought that she was able to say, “Don’t,” but watched him walk off anyway. As the elevator doors slid shut she saw him walk back into the flames. Alarms were ringing as she descended.




Ivory Black is prepared by charring bones.

The city absorbs strange experiences; the most traumatic and outlandish events are noticed, reported, assimilated, and quickly forgotten. The pressure of human experience, the sheer weight and gravity of human emotion forces individual lives into a flatness, a smoothness of interaction.

A studio apartment is gutted by fire; a crying woman is found wrapped in what appears to be a funeral shroud in an elevator; a mysterious man—reported by some as old, by others as young, by still others as deformed—is seen slinking away from the scene of the fire bent under an immense black silk bundle.

He disappears; she resumes her life; the apartment is repaired.

And the events are forgotten.




Caput Mortuum is a variety of brown which derives its name from some mysterious connection to the skulls of early Christians which have been found in Roman catacombs.

In an ancient land, there is a castle in ruins. It was once a stone and beam tower surrounded by a wall. Now the parapets have been chipped and broken, the buttresses have shifted and now sag, letting some parts of the roof collapse. In the twilight the ruins suggest a cloaked and armored warrior slumping forward, perhaps dying and perhaps already dead.

Within the ruins one immediately has an impression of wrongness, of some small detail being amiss. Eventually it becomes apparent. No pigeons or doves have nested here to paint the stones with their droppings; no lizards scratch or scramble over the rocks; no rats can be seen or heard within the dirty crannies of the place; there are no spiderwebs in these ruins to catch the dew or to close up cracks in the structures like gauzed bandages over wounds.

It’s as if the place were somehow patrolled by some larger predator, or as if the place were somehow shunned.

A man approaches the ruins. He is bent beneath some great burden, carrying an enormous bundle tied to his back. The man looks pitiably small here. He scrabbles over the stones like an insect, perhaps like an ant in the service of its royalty.

The man carefully takes his bundle to the recessed entrance of a corridor leading to the structures beneath the ruins. He descends a long unlit passage of narrow, uneven steps. The walls around him are close and exude a warm, moldlike dampness. The air moves slightly, rhythmically, not unlike the breathing of a sleeping beast.

The man’s feet disturb faded brown chips of some substance which scrape and crunch underfoot.

From the donjon below comes a sound. The man is expected. As he continues his descent, he recognizes sounds of rustling, as if some dried, dessicated thing were resettling, almost collapsing in on itself. There is also the scrabbling of hard instruments, or claws of some sort against damp stone. There is the persistent sound of wheezing and sucking, although it is arhythmic in nature, and thus bears little resemblance to the sound of a living thing.

The man enters a chamber lit by the dim flickering of a distant torch. Somewhere water or some liquid is dripping. The floor is broken, exposing dank earth through which ice crystals often grow in unearthly formations, irrespective of time of day or season of year. The man sets down his burden and removes the black silk wrappings. He glances around as he arranges the stretched canvas squares around the chamber. Although it’s damp and cold, the man sweats.

There is the sound of a great bulk being dragged over stones, and the sound of metallic or bone claws digging into the wet, crumbled floor of the chamber, gaining purchase. The torchlight dims as the space of the chamber is nearly filled with the arrival of the Master.

The portraits arranged around the walls of the room are all of beautiful women. These are undefinable things, products of an unexplainable creation. These portraits show an extraordinarily vivid command of color and light, and portray the wet lustrous eyes and warm pulsating blush and tender, meant-to-be-private nipples and thighs and secrets of these women.

The forms in these paintings are monumental. They portray the curves and nuances of feminine bodies more fully than most people would think that bodies could be captured, even through the normal skin-to-skin-and-beyond contacts of intimacy. The figures give the impression of being full.

The faces can never be seen moving, but nonetheless their eyes, and the tendons of their cheeks, and their lips seem to respond with fear and a sense of entrapment.

The Master, the Count, drags himself around the chamber to each one of the portraits in turn. His slick eyes drink in the color and form of the women. His gaze profanely burns the spirits there in those pictures. Some of the portraits are tweaked and ever-so-lightly torn by the razor tips of his bone claws. Others are clouded by his acrid breath. Still others feel the rasp of a meaty thing which had once been a human tongue.

After he looks at each of the portraits in turn, the Count drags himself to where the painter genuflects on the stone floor. Segmented sections of the Count’s body wrap around the painter, claws decorated with jagged hooklike scales press cruelly against the painter’s old skin. The painter smells air which is not quite breath, but which nonetheless has been expelled from deep within the body of the Count.

“I know that there’s one missing. Can you explain yourself, boy?” the Count says.

The painter looks up and locks his fullest concentration on the light, which is so dim as to almost be lost.

“Some things even you are denied, Master,” he said.




Dragon’s Blood is exceptionally sensitive to light.




LOST ALLEYS

by Jeffrey Thomas







Jeffrey Thomas is the other half of the Thomas brother act in this volume of The Year’s Best Horror Stories. Yes, Jeffrey, there is a conspiracy. Watch for the coffee reference, as Thomas confesses all:

“I was born October 3, 1957, in Marlborough, MA. My dad is a painter/poet whose verses, mostly inspired by his Navy service in WWII, have received a lot of local attention. My mother used to write a column for a local paper, as did my sister, and one of my two younger brothers is Scott (“Memento Mori”) Thomas. I am married to a lovely deaf woman and we have a one-year-old son, Colin, who likes to grimace and contort like a Scanner, and laughs when he ‘blows up’ his dad or Uncle Scott.

“I have sold stories to the magazines Gorezone, Strange Days, and so on, one of my stories having been reprinted in the hard-cover ‘best of’ collection Quick Chills II. An SF story of mine will soon appear in Jerry Pournelle’s theme anthology Liberty and Justice for All. I am also a published artist, cartoonist, and poet, and am editor of the small press publication The End.

“I have a yin and yang tattooed on each hand, live life one coffee at a time, and aspire to be the Elvis Costello of horror.

“‘Lost Alleys’ was written under the inspiration of three of my favorite authors: H.P. Lovecraft, D.F. Lewis and W.H. Pugmire.”





There are places in cities only the drunk, drugged, or insane can find. Even if you have been there before, you will not find them again if sober—assuming you are one who occasionally regains sobriety. The angles and planes, the layout of buildings, conspire to direct you elsewhere, to more prosaic destinations. It may be this design is intentional. Streets point you past these alleys, and more conventional alleys bend eye and foot past the narrow suballeys. Magician’s misdirection and the psychology of art—but also our fear and inhibition of straying from the path—keep these places hidden.

I have found such secret or forgotten corners in several cities; I can usually remember what I saw at these places, but not always which city I found them in. I can’t always remember straight off in the morning which city I’m currently in. I suppose my proclivity for finding these shadowy caves in the mountain range of a city has to do with the fact that I am usually either drunk or drugged, and perhaps always insane.

Somehow tonight I had found my way back to a courtyard I had visited before in my somnambulistic wanderings. You never actually forget anything; your mind simply blots out what is unnecessary, or unwanted. But part of me must have wanted to return to see another of the battles in this tiny arena.

The walls were of brick, and stretched high, windowless. Perhaps it had been a great chimney; there was a black iron door, low to the ground. They kept some of the contestants in there. That other night, I had watched an Oriental dwarf battle a thylacine, one of those supposedly extinct Tasmanian tigers. Crates and cinder-blocks piled shoulder-high enclosed the fighting ring. When I arrived this night, several dozen dark forms ringed the ring. Only two chickens wearing spurs presently went at it.

I can’t stand cruelty to animals; I had been glad when the thylacine won. I stood back smoking a cigarette until more willing opponents were brought out. These two had made a decision to enter the ring. Not necessarily a rational decision, but they weren’t innocent victims. Well, victims yes, of many unknown tortures from without and within, but too far gone to merit much concern from me. I didn’t ask for their concern, either.

They were two naked men. One was tall and skeletal, the other short and even thinner. The tall one wore brass knuckles with spikes on one hand, in the other gripped a baling hook. His opponent held a railroad spike and a broken bottle with a much-taped neck for a handle. The short one was black, and had blacker keloids of scar tissue, primarily on his face, but I didn’t know if they were decorative or the wounds of past exhibitions.

I insinuated myself close to the ring’s barrier. Someone squeezed my ass but when I didn’t look they stopped, and anyway the battle had begun.

The gladiators sprang away from each other, the tall one swinging his brass-knuckled fist up into his own face, the short warrior gouging his bottle into his own inner thigh while pounding the dull chisel-point of his spike into his sternum. I leaned onto the wall; I’d never seen this before.

No one cheered them on. These matches were always nearly silent. Even the dying didn’t scream. A man in a three piece suit on my right clutched foreign-looking money in his fist, whispering encouragement to one of them under his breath.

The tall one had hooked himself in the leg and tore upward with terrible jerks. His blood was very distinct, if black, on his cadaverous skin. But now the black man charged him, linked arms with the man and wrestled him to the ground, the tall man’s ripped leg too agonized or damaged to resist this. The black man got his arms around both of the other’s and forced his face into the floor. Holding the tall man’s arms inside his elbows left the black man’s hands free to jab his bottle under his jaw and swing his forehead down onto the spike he clenched, hammering deep gashes into his own dark skin.

I understood now. The combatants were to combat themselves; one had to inflict more damage to himself than the other could do to his body, while preventing the other—without harming him—from mutilating himself. The black man had taken charge quickly, perhaps a running champion. But now the tall one twisted half free, and he had extricated the baling hook from his leg. He swung it up into his throat, and wrenched his arm out to one side with great force for so emaciated a creature. I heard a hiss of approval from the spectators, and a hiss of blood.

The black man bore all his slight weight down onto the other’s arm (he obviously wasn’t allowed to let go of either weapon to use his hands) but the wound was already too wide. The tall man quickly became mostly as dark as the black man, in the dim light. I felt a damp mist on my hand. The tall man convulsed under the smaller. Ah, now I knew. The black wasn’t the running champion, but the running loser, and the fight with one’s self had been to the death.

There were more contests. Two spirited adolescents one would have imagined engaged in a video game challenge instead. Two men wrestling to rape each other. A man with a spear in a wheelchair against two pit bulls which had been firmly lashed together so that they faced in opposite directions. All three lost, I understand, but I had then turned away to do the drugs I had brought with me.

I awoke inside a dark place. I realized it was the place behind that black iron door. Panic came over me. They were going to use me in the next games! But I could vaguely recall crawling into that space, and falling asleep there. When I pushed at the door, it opened on creaking rusty hinges.

Square of light at the top of the chimney, and though the shaft was blue with shadowed gloom, I was startled at the relative brightness of day. I was afraid to emerge from my safe tomb, but did. The arena was empty but for an obese man with a shaven head inside the ring, spray-painting over the dried blood. He just glanced at me. I wandered around the outside of the ring, between it and the walls of the chimney, as though circling lost in a spiral maze, smoking a broken cigarette I found.

The obese man gave me some drugs after I blew him. I sat against the brick wall, pulled my knees up close, waiting for night, saving the drugs in my pocket until much later. I would take them before the fights, however; I did not want to see the fights without the drugs.

I couldn’t leave, you understand, until that night. It was daylight. I was sober. I didn’t know the way.




SALUSTRADE

by D.F. Lewis







Born in 1948 in Walton-on-Naze, D.F. Lewis currently lives in Surrey. In 1968 August Derleth rejected two of his early stories as being “pretty much pure grue.” Derleth at that time was publishing through Arkham House stories by unknown beginners such as Ramsey Campbell, Brian Lumley, and David Drake. Crestfallen, Lewis waited twenty years to reattempt his writing career. He did so with a vengeance: he has published over 550 stories since January 1987. True, most of these stories aren’t much longer than Joey Froehlich’s poems. True, most of these small press publications not even your editor has ever heard of. But over 550 stories…

Jessica Amanda Salmonson has described Lewis as “a cross between Lovecraft and a large demented rat observing humanity from the vantage point of a dumpster or sewer drain.” Lewis writes that he will soon be featured in a special D.F. Lewis issue of Corset Digest, and I’m not at all certain he’s joking. I do know that TAL has published The Best of D.F. Lewis and that a second volume is forthcoming. Pity it wasn’t Arkham House twenty years ago, but then how many stories could Lewis have written during those missing two decades?





He could not remember much about arriving in Starship City. Somehow, a bedsit had been arranged above a secondhand bookshop. A secretary had also been provided, a straightlaced, middle-aged woman who mixed duties between the bookshop and his requirements. The flat was mediocre, most modern conveniences and, very important, his own front door. But how could he explain the subtle hatred he felt for the bookshop below? He even used the bookshop’s headed notepaper (discovered in an otherwise empty drawer in the bedsit) to write a letter of complaint to the bookshop. However, when he tried to recall the contents of the letter after he had posted it, all he could remember was one vague portmanteau expression involving “gladiola”—something about flowers, he thought, if it was spelled correctly.




The secretary was calling up the stairs to him. “Mr. Williams! Mr. Williams!!” Could she have a key to his front door? The sense of security seemed to dissolve as grounds melt to murky hot water. He opened the internal door and discerned the upturned gaze of the secretary.

“Miss Lakeminster, could you please knock on the front door in future? I didn’t know you had a master key.”

“I didn’t use a key, Mr. Williams. I really didn’t! I thought I spotted a dark shape—like a man—and it fiddled about in your porch. Mr. Williams, I was suspicious and when I got here, the door was open!”

“I haven’t seen anybody.”

“Well, it’s very peculiar.”

“The wind must have blown it open—I might have accidentally left it off the catch…” He suddenly remembered the letter. “Did you get my letter?” He had forgotten she had typed it. He could hardly see Miss Lakeminster in the semidarkness of the stairs, but he shuddered as he imagined her parboiled face and damning eyes. Miss Lakeminster equally could hardly see Mr. Williams’ face staring bodilessly around the quarter-opened door. The dark shape of a figure, whose outline Miss Lakeminster had thought she had seen in the porch, was now hidden, between them on the stairs, by the converging half-darkness of each observer. It crouched and watched their dialogue.

“What letter?”

“You know, the letter you…”

“Oh, do you mean this one?” She held up an unopened window envelope which had been in her pocket. Mr. Williams thought he saw her offer him a white oblong through the dimness, so he descended toward her. The figure squashed itself against the wall at the side of the stairs, thus allowing Mr. Williams to pass with only the merest brush of cloth on cloth. The dusk was now so deep that even at such close proximity, he did not notice the figure squatting against the pressure of the wall. As strangely as he had arrived in the city, the letter had become one addressed to him and, grabbing it from Miss Lakeminster, he tore it open at the foot of the stairs and read it greedily. The figure left the dark well of the stairs and gracefully glided to Mr. Williams’ shoulder. The letter informed any potential reader of the job for the purpose of which Mr. Williams had been sent to Starship City. He—Dan Williams—was to be the sole astronaut chosen for the heralded mission to outer space. He staggered under the shock of the message, gradually recalling the intensive training and habilitation he had undergone for many years. The figure smiled knowingly from the back of Dan’s shadow, unseen by Miss Lakeminster who was busy scrabbling on the threadbare carpet for something she thought she had lost.

The figure slipped through the open door. Whether she—Miss Lakeminster—did indeed see it, she failed even to show one flicker of recognition in her damning eyes. It scuttled through the dark gas-lit streets, away from the shop of old books—but, before it left the vicinity, it cupped hands to its lips and homed a message to the city’s twilit inhabitants. It riffled fingers across the stack of lasthand books which were kept outside for late night bargain hunters. It chuckled, thinking of the technology humming within underground domes. The streets were left almost medieval in some insane yearning for the past. Lobbing one of the dogeared books at a nearby gaslight, it scattered off to the launch pad—and, after scampering through back-doubles and rat-runs, across ill-lit squares with spluttering fountains at their centers, under badly repaired fences and beyond the rears of old-fashioned terraced two-up-two-downs, it reached the bleak fields at the city’s edge. There, silhouetted against a blotted moon, it surveyed the spire of civilization’s pervading religion. The tall tapering rocket was fused against the night sky in agonizing splendour—on one side could be seen the panorama of the mazy city’s lights and, on the other, the far stretching plains of nothingness. The figure cowered at the root of the rocket.

Dan Williams strode through the city streets with Miss Lakeminster in his wake. In a rather clumsy and unthinking way, they had just shared sex in his bedsit. Yet their limbs retained some tingling at the memory. The dawn was about to break as they headed toward the launch pad and he led her by the hand, almost like a father guiding his daughter through a fun-fair ghost house. The rocket was limned against a near-screaming margin of dawn-orange, while large birds wheeled with gullish screeches over its rearing point. Dan thought it seemed a rare orchid with black bees dipping for the pollen. Abruptly, there again loomed the figure, garbed as a gladiator, lurching from behind the base of the rocket. Holding its sword akimbo, it trumpeted at the mindless couple. Almost instantaneously, the scene became the day of the launch. Dan Williams, astronaut supreme, was established in the module at the rocket’s point. A burst of fire bloomed at the foot of the wick and, with outlandish noise of a lunatic’s scream of blue murder, it plummeted into the sky. The citizens shaded their eyes with salutes to see it grow no bigger than a bird—now alone in the withering welkin. Then, it appeared to shudder momentarily… and explode. Merely that. A silver flash of sword blade, then a lightning shaft against an echoing sky… and, beyond, nothing.

Turning back toward the second-hand bookshop, Miss Lakeminster shed a tear from her no longer damning eyes. Now knowing she wanted to give up being the secretary in a bookshop in Starship City, she was heartbroken by the loss of her loved one and decided to kill herself by lying on a bed and arranging for the bookshop’s owner to immerse her head in a pile of damp secondhand books. Before she lay down, she went to the small aperture in the wall and strained her eyes to survey the gaslit city. Yet another distant rocket ship, at the city’s edge, pointed spaceward from the launch pad and it seemed to her to be a finger of some prone giant raised in reprimand over the disheveled mazes of the city slums. She heard a faraway drunken cry emerge from a steamy cafe and, as suddenly, cease, beneath the heavy approach of night. She laid a hand on the sill and, almost without impulse, she toppled back upon the bed.

Mr. Weggs entered Miss Lakeminster’s room and, before him, in the half-light of Starship City’s dusk, lay the cadaverous shape of the stricken lady. Just the rim of the uppermost skin reflected the twilight’s weakly golden glow as it struggled through the grimy panes of the tiny lotto-hatch in the wall. She was quite naked. Mr. Weggs, knowing how prim she had been during his acquaintance with her, shook his head in disbelief.

The sockets, where his eyes must have rested, pulsed darker than the shadow of his skull. The huddle of books in his aching arms were just another shapeless stranger of black and he wondered which of these books would hold the final suffocating victory over her breath. He strode toward the recumbent figure and carefully placed the books in a makeshift pyramid over her mouth, nose and eyes. She had loved that astronaut Williams and, now, her boss, meticulously patting the damp books into place over her features, involuntarily admired her unutterable loyalty to the deceased spaceman: he sprinkled over the pyramid of books some black blooms which had been crimson in daylight hours but now night-stained with death juice. They fell haphazardly over and through the damp pages. But she stirred slightly at this rustle of petals and her face gradually rose, spilling the books to the floor like lumpy porridge. She realized with some unexpected force that the remains of her astronaut had not been found. The explosion of the rocket far up in the wide sky had surely shattered him beyond corporeal existence. Perhaps a shred of flesh or splinter of bone fell to earth. Perhaps he had fluttered down like a slow scattering of broken petals. Perhaps he was alive, beckoning to her with a split finger. Mr. Weggs prudently withdrew from the room as a tear swelled at the tip of her nose. The books around her were nothing but memories, too—mere pages of live, thoughts that were all but dead. How could the bone of one finger split into a “V”? For a book to live, though, must it not in fact become such a “V”? As she finally died, the tear fell from her nose to the open book that had fallen in front of her and the page read: “Elizabeth Lakeminster was the secretary in a bookshop…” May she rest in peace.




Starship City was alive with another launch carnival. Colors galore bobbed in balloon- and umbrella-shapes above the crazy harlequinade. The pygmy figure, tufted with a red-tinseled goatee beard and garbed in mock-gladiatorial fashion, threaded his way between the drugged bodies and over-brimming cafes, heading for the launch-pad at the city’s edge. Suddenly, he was halted by a somber procession of hooded figures carrying a human coffin upon their shoulders. He guessed this was a jokey ritual, some sick fancy-dress rag-stunt. But, no—a genuine priest swung a steaming censer in the same rhythm as his stride, at the head of the chanting group. The pygmy knew that the priest was pukka since he wore an insignia of faith, a golden ‘V’ tattooed on his brow. But suddenly the pygmy was struck from behind by the careless butterfly-switch of Captain Bintiff. The recipient looked down at his knurled feet, as if penitent. Beneath his soles, he felt the insidious throb of the underground machine domes which fed the launchpad with energy and he remembered the times that he had been enslaved in the oil room, funneling great tubes of black sludge into the moving parts of the metal maze hidden away beneath the scurrilous lanes of the gaslit city, whence he had escaped a terrible doom by becoming a spy for Bintiff.

“Salustrade!” boomed Bintiff, giving his subject a further stinging slap. “That, my dear overgrown black turd, is the funeral ceremony of the late Elizabeth Lakeminster—but I wish it were you that were bloody dead!” Bintiff bent at the bones in time with the alternate pitch of his voice. As he continued, the distant rocket which was Starship City’s second attempt to send a man to outer space, roared into the blue sky. “And that, my dear overnourished toad’s afterbirth, is one reason why I am sending you back to the oil rooms—you were supposed to sabotage the bleeding rocketship, as you did before—look, this one is whooshing up like a dream! Whoosh, bloody, whoosh!”

Salustrade horned a long note with his curled hands and pursed lips, like a living conch shell, in resonance with the rocket’s bone-rattling roar and the answering sky. And, on board this second rocket, the nameless astronaut lay dead, snuffed from life by a proxy hijack poison in his tea. Beside his fresh corpse, gradually leaning away from each other like a fresh “V,” were the astral projections of two souls. These thin balloon-shapes which were filled as if with soft delicate putty pulled back together at the top until all was eventually whole, all was eventually peace and sexual nirvana. The rocketship took them forever, farever. Meanwhile, scullion Salustrade worked his buttocks off in the oil rooms.

Starship City sat at the foot of the New Hills which rose like steps eastward from the Argumentative Oceans. On the other side of the vast gaslit metropolis, lay the mighty land fissure which still creaked and groaned on certain days of the year. As one approached from the south along the carriageways, one could hear the mammoth rasping of Nature (“Surely, it will crack the world in two, one day!”) and see the looming rocketship monument to all those who had died cosmic deaths. The monument was indeed the first sign of the city that the stranger saw: a tall tapering cone-pinnacle or narrow pyramid, curiously like a church spire ready for launch. Soon, it was obvious that this marked the outer limits of the city suburbs—countless ranks of decrepit terraced two-up-two-downs in faded black and white checkerboard, items of washing hanging across the narrow byways and shadowing the queues of gossipers and scandalmongers.

“You don’t want to stay long in these parts, for the oilmen’s wives live here,” said one do-gooding ne’erdowell.

“What oilmen?” asked the stranger. “I thought the city’s industry was spaceflight.”

“Well, the city is really lost in time—that’s the only way to explain it to outsiders. The buildings, as you near the one-way system at the center, were made piecemeal from the Victorian ruins but, like all transplants, the old and new sit ill together. And, to cap it all, elfkin cattle roam at all hours between the gaslights and office blocks. Under the ground, there are the murky machine-rooms which feed melted energy to the launchpads on the city outskirts. All moving parts, moving against each other, like lovers…”

“But what oilmen?”

“Didn’t I say? Well, they’re the men who live most their lives underground feeding black sludge to the metal joints—miscegenates mostly and convicts and bents and cripples and others…”

“There is one in particular I’m after…”

“Eeeny meeny myny mo, catch a bugger by his toe—it’s Salustrade you’re after, aren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s his name—if he’s what you call an oilman, so much the better—he’ll be pleased to quit the city’s entrails and work for me.”

“He used to sabotage the rocketships before liftoff—some crazy conspiracies to undermine the system—or to rescue political prisoners in the Memorial Halls—that’s why he lives and works down there—a fitting punishment—never comes up for air, dear sir.” The city slicker gave a strange shrug and left the stranger. In fact, the stranger was two strangers, one inside the other, but both with the same head.

A solitary jogger appeared at the end of the street, its body bouncing along like a shiny black balloon—almost obscene. The stranger who was Siamese twins, Tristan and Clovis, still walked toward the center of the gaslit city in an area of mainly secondhand bookshops. As they were nearly knocked over by the careless jogger, they stumbled away from each other but, now being joined at the base of the two spines by the mutant gum of misbirth, they kept upright and continued their skewed way.

“Watch where you’re going!” they shouted at the vanishing shadow.

A rocket burst into flame from some other quarter of the city—another abortive launch creating a temporary firework display, outshining the feeble flickering of the night’s natural costume jewelry. As the jogger ran toward the outskirts, a mighty sword materialized in its grasp which was, in truth, a broken railing from the Lakeminster Memorial Hall.

Tristan and Clovis sat on their hips, scornful of ever finding the main entrance to the underground oilroom. They were at the foot of a spluttering fountain in one of those city squares where, during daylight, office workers munched their ill-spread sandwiches and listened obliviously to the mumbling machinery beneath their itchy feet.

Salustrade, the jogger in disguise, lately escaped from the damning darkness of the interconnecting subcity hells, careered through the last-ditch lanes of Starship City, wheeling the sword above his head. He had oiled his body over with pure black grease, kneading it into every pore of his skin and underskin. He had become a silky dark balloon and, letting out the breath from his lungs in one vigorous gasp, had spirited through a lock-and-key system from a flaw in the drainage valves (where the grill had been shattered by rogue rocket-shrapnel). He had sped through the city—at the time when the streets were empty—except for that damn two-voiced rhinocerosman who had stumbled in his way. The night had kept from Salustrade the secret of this obstacle’s identity, although he suspected it of being the matured afterbirth of a certain Ma and Pa Bintiff.




“You never found Salustrade, then?” asked another ne’erdowell.

“I never even found the oilrooms!” Clovis and Tristan answered with one voice, but two tongues.

“But you’re in the oilrooms now! Can’t you see the eccentric wheels churning fast up there on the lowest ceiling? A rocket’s about to launch from the out-city fields, beyond the back of the terraced houses, and you’ve work to do. They keep the do-gooders, ne’erdowells, and cripples down here, like the likes of you. Got a use for them all. Keep the moving parts moving—take up the vats of Flowing grease and pour. The flywheels will mesh and clog, clockwork ill-marrying clockwork, otherwise. And the rocket’s just got to go. Whoosh, bloody, whoosh! Space is our only destiny and hope.”

A listener from the days of Dan Williams and the first Captain Bintiff would have been bewildered at how times had changed and how undercover conspiracies were now the Golden Mean.




Salustrade stood beside the mighty fissure in the Earth, Long-Spike raised against the whining yellows of the dawn. A mere croak—then grinding screech—girder eroding girder—cracking, groaning double-backbones of Earth heaving against each other—sick unto the core. And from the fissure, the greatest rocket that ever left land raised its ugly hammer-head toward the breaking heavens. All the good and healthy people were on board, now gone for good, quitting the dark abandonable Earth. Salustrade shrugged and jogged back the way he had come, to release the oilers and the benders and his other stricken pals.

The gigantic rocket, of course, exploded soon after launch, creating a blinding Queen-Catherine-Wheel over Starship City, while Tristan and Clovis lay on their side and awaited inevitable rescue from a pygmy Savior who, they now prayed, would come and to whom they had given the provisional name of Salustrade. They themselves had fates to forge, destines to unspring, like greyhounds after the hare.




“If time goes backward, to poison someone you must first poison his shit.” The voice echoed in the darkness, interrupting a second voice with which it held converse of sorts.

“You know, in Heaven where God is supposed to sit on His throne, there are apprentice angels, one or two of whom are trained to slop out the public conveniences up there.”

The room was clammily, oilily dark, if room it were, and the voices tried to wriggle away from each other—but being joined now at all points on their surfaces, this was more than impossible. Clovis and Tristan had only been tenuously connected in their mutual mother’s womb. From that point onward, their jointure had grown gradually thicker, sturdier, integrally tentacled, until they felt (and, some said, looked) like an alien creature. They had originally come to Starship City, seeking Salustrade. Commissioned by one of the Bintiffs who thought that the pygmy had information worth its salt-mine, they had since discovered that he was a scullion who used to work down here in the subterranean workings of the spaceport (a spaceport which stood above at the edge of the metropolis like a township of finger-stalls). The Bintiff had not told them everything, evidently testing their communal intelligence for future, perhaps more important, missions. In any event, Salustrade had escaped from the oil rooms which were instrumental in cranking and churning the machines which in turn drove the spaceship rockets to the upper levels of both the tenable and untenable universes. But, Salustrade, in his instinctive knowledge of all possibilities and probabilities and certainties and their opposites, had seen fit not to spring those trapped in the lowest layers of the machine rooms who were thus mouldering away in the rusted metal corridors of darkness. Such were Tristan and Clovis, who kept up a desultory overlapping conversation to while away as much of the future as they could.

“If God knew we’re here, He’d surely spare a few of his apprentice angels to come and kiss us better.”

“And to clear away the excrement.”

Each time one of the voices moved, the other had to struggle to keep clear of the squelching rats that ran from his mouth to his bottom, and vice versa, and vice versa again, in a self-supplementing, if depleting, food chain. But, thankfully, the darkness hid the rats’ damning eyes.

“They say the last rocket that went up exploded above the city—and all the good and healthy and rich people on Earth-out were destroyed and rained down like living sparks upon the whole city in which they had once drunk and danced.”

“And others say it was one of those ruffians who used to work down here who tripped the switch which turned the rocketship inside out, so that all its complicated workings hung free like shameful parts—it could have done nothing else but explode in the circumstances.”

“Why did we come here, Tristan?”

“Why indeed, Clovis?”

“Because we were told to…”

“… capture Salustrade before…”

“… he tripped the switch which only he knew about…”

“… and which would put paid to all civilization’s possibilities…”

“… and the destruction of all those with Victorian values who were supposed to seed the stars…”

“… which we used to gaze at in the night skies of our childhood…”

“… and what will there be now…”

“… nothing but faggots, cripples, half-castes and aidsters, colonizing their own world…”

“… most of whom work down here in these (god) forsaken machine rooms…”

“… before Big Bang lets them out…”

“Ptcha! Ptchoo! You’re nought but the bottomings of my loo!” Suddenly the last voice was not Tristan or Clovis at all. It was a whisper, another’s voice, which was the first they had heard for several years. They could not quite appreciate its meaning, but the words themselves continued to be quite clear. “I’ve crawled on all fours through pipes of congealed oil, unlocked my bones to ravel a passage through the twisted machine parts, shrunk my skull to the size of a rat’s head to nose forward across the blade ends of boosters, transfixers and turbines—and I’ve double-talked unsprung clockworks to let me through, entered among the triggers of unmarried cogs on feather-hair trellises, forged relationships with unfulfilled piston-shafts—and all this just to rescue those whom I was told must be rescued…”

“The angel has arrived, Tristan!”

“To take us back to Heaven, Clovis!”

“Don’t give me that donkey’s doings!” returned the whisper. “I’m Salustrade, and I did not squeeze through this awful sewer just for you to give me this God-shit!”

“Salustrade?” The voices spoke together, recalling a time when the name had actually meant something to them.

“I’m that black balloon which tripped you up when you first came to Starship City, all those years and years ago. I had covered myself in the glory of black oil that used to make the machine parts down here love each other, and I had slipped through the slightest grill, to tip the wink to all the others in the know. I’ve since met up with bookish Padgett Weggs, who knows more than those actually in the know. He knows more than is good for anybody, I can tell you. He says we’re to make room for Great Old Ones who (altogether he feared them himself once) have more complex metal parts than the inventors of all this little lot of a machine maze I’ve come through just now had hot dinners…”

Tristan and Clovis stared at the darkness whence the whisper came. They were still convinced that this was a visitation from an apprentice angel. But Salustrade continued: “Even now, monstrous Irreducibles and living Dirigibles crank in from the stars, Black Gods, Old Gods, even Older Gods, Great Gods, heaving, churning, clucking Ancient Ones, Old Heads on even Older Shoulders, with Big Wings far too Big for their own Bodies, their Bones, their Old Old Elder Bones tougher than Earth’s toughest metal, and all conjoined like a trillion Siamese Monster-Twins!”

Tristan felt the light kiss of a metabolic rat and its almost human snarl “Ptch! Ptchoo!” which it uttered when passing his ears on the return journey. But Salustrade’s whisper droned on, if whisper it still was: “I’m come in for cover, I admit—all my crippled and mindless pals must want me to seek the advice of the Machine-Oracle that they thought must still lurk down here—the question is, what can be done about it? All the clever ones (with clean knickers and ambitions to match) parted company with their bodies sky-side, when I flicked that springy hair across the wrong terminals on the wrong day… O Machine-Oracle, tell me!”

Tristan and Clovis shrugged together and raised themselves on all four legs, scuttled like a dying spider, bouncing off the corroded walls like a squash-fly. It was as if possessed. “Go back to your Padgett Weggs!” it shrieked like a banshee in heat. “Bring him and teach him how to shovel shit! See how he likes being apprenticed to the Devil!”

“He’ll be dead by now,” came the voice of the one who called itself Salustrade. “He was a simple bookish man. In fact, they’ll all be dead, except me.”

“Then, go back and tell them the Oracle can do nothing but hope, against all the sensible possibilities, yes, hope—that Time has character enough to have second thoughts.”

“I know not the way back—I left my memory upon a powerful magnet near an oil-belly below the piston rooms—it sumped me good and proper.”

With that, the rust-clogged parts shuddered, as if about to move in some semblance of togetherness. The churning from distant regions of the submachines was faint at first, much like Earth-start must have been in the earliest days. Then, with increasing uproars and slow, but powerful, outbursts, the lights flashed on and off, on and off, and vise versa, revealing great shiny moving parts of new-forged steel shafts, hot pistons and eccentric wheels flying together like long-lost lovers. And so, Tristan and Clovis were sprung like rats from a trap by irresistible exifugal forces into the interface of the serrating top edges of Starship City and the down-burgeoning metal-god systems of the Great Old Ones. There, with much unconfessed relief, they saw the rejigged hob-madonna rocket hover back down to Earth—since the firework-man had originally forgotten to light its fuse. These good and healthy people once in an infinity of little bits were returning, blending back together again, as they would always maintain, to save the world from things even worse than themselves. Tristan and Clovis bounded off, embarrassed but determined to rejoin the guerilla armies who were even now feeling their own bodies to see if there were any signs of the dislocations, mortal wounds, decapitations, and downright smithereens which they once thought the good and healthy people had suffered. And now they had Old Gods to fight, too.




“Cancher blinking move?”

The night had drawn in early across the roofs of Starship City, bringing creatures with it that could fly more easily through darkness than daylight—because, as Padgett Weggs, the dosser, told his sleeping partner, night’s density and the creatures’ specific gravity were complementary—though he did not use those very words nor fully comprehend the implications of metal being lighter than air. He pointed into the impenetrable sky and screeched: “You can see their shape of wings! Hovering up there, if you only knew how to use your eyes, my dear.”

“Cancher blinking move?”

“I’m already pushed right up to the wall of the Lakeminster Memorial, my dear.”

“And I’ve got the bleeding curb in my back!”

The woman, unlike Mr. Weggs, had her standards, since she wore fashionable suede gloves to her elbows. Upon one finger she sported a sparkling nugget of glass, which often made other dossers blind with envy and mumbling with fury. And there were plenty of such dossers since the oil rooms exploded.

“You only want to sleep with me for my money.

“No, Elizabeth, I love you more than any down-and-out can say. I want to protect you from the things that flap up, even now, to roost upon our dying bodies and probe our skulls with their drill-beaks.”

“I’ve seen you leer at my trinkets, when you’re not spouting nonsense.”

“Your eyes are jewels enough, my dear—your words the only books.”

“You never cuddle me right. Cancher see women need loving properly?”

Padgett Weggs ringed her with his arms. “There, there, Elizabeth, I can love you as good as any man. My mother taught me how to hold a lady like she wants to be held.”

“Kiss me, then, Padgett.”

He planted his damp mildewy lips upon the uprising flower of flesh and circled it with his musty tongue. He eased his hands under the many layers of sacking and lifted them above her head. The air was chill and he felt the woman shiver. The gaslight shuddered, too.

“Lawks-a-mercy, it is too frigging cold to be in the nude.”

“Wait on, my dear.” He eased off his own sackings and dressed her in them. Then he struggled into her sackings. He felt he would wear them like a princess.

“Ooh, Padgett, you’re a devil!”

He unpeeled the long gloves from her arms and rolled them up his own like prophylactics. “Don’t you enjoy it, though, Elizabeth, when we make love in each other’s clothes?”

She did not answer as they renewed their embrace. The stench of their rags mingled as the Great Old Ones flapped in from those ink-well cores in the sky. The leader on bony oars spotted that titbit it had yearned for, since eternities of flight. Within the human skull, it would crack out the softest, juiciest shellfish of a brain ever conceived. Even now, the pulpy innards twitched and seethed upward like frothy meat-shake, winding and whining within the bony conch: ready to rocket up and escape…

And, so, one Great Old One plummeted and, faster than a blink of its artery-mapped eyelid, plucked what it thought was the man’s brain being passed from mouth to mouth, during a French kiss. Despite the confused clothes, with green-spunk lips, it sucked upon this bewildered blob and ingested it through a funnel of twisting flesh-metal and perpetual metabolic darkness. Meanwhile, the real Elizabeth Lakeminster and the real Dan Williams regained the Platonic Form of every pair of creatures who decided to come together as one. They loved to watch each mote and microbe of each other wriggle free and become characters in the flickering play of the universe. Such skittering offspring from their metaphysical loins were the half-breeds and double-breeds who were ready to soak the light in black oil to make it night, or vice versa, vice versa, vice versa, V V V V V…

Salustrade sat in the sewer, his hands locked in prayer like two fleshy moth-wings having sex. He desperately wanted to be the Child who was Father to us all.




THE POWER OF ONE

by Nancy Kilpatrick







Nancy Kilpatrick was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and now lives in Toronto with her Canadian husband. Since she still hasn’t given me her date of birth, I’ll just guess it at around 1870, judging by her love for vampire fiction.

Nancy Kilpatrick’s over fifty horror stories have appeared in small press publications and in anthologies, including Sinistre, Deathsport, Xanadu 3, Bizarre Bazaar 93, After Hours, Freak Show, and Dead of Night. The first novel of an erotic horror series has just been released from Masquerade Books under a pseudonym, which she does not disclose. A collection of her vampire stories is slated for 1994 from TAL Publications, entitled Sex and the Single Vampire. Her horror novel, Near Death, is scheduled to be published by Pocket Books about the same time as this book you’re reading now, so go out and look for it. Fans who can supply your editor with a copy of Kilpatrick’s pseudonymous erotic horror novel will receive a wreath of garlic.





Mira counted the checkered squares that made up the deep pile on Dr. Rosen’s waiting room floor. A row of sixty black and sixty white lined the cardiologist’s broadloom from the door to the window. Seventy of each across. Sixteen thousand eight hundred. She felt sure the space taken up by the desk held twenty and twenty. Those plus the three blacks and three whites under every one of the six chairs meant the floor should contain, altogether, sixteen thousand eight hundred seventy-six. Only base numbers from one to nine held meaning. She had to reduce that large total.

Quickly she added the individual digits that made up that number horizontally. One plus six plus eight plus seven plus six. The muscles of her chest tensed. She considered using the calculator her dad had given her but felt guilty, as though that would be cheating. After all, she thought, he wouldn’t use it, although the gift implied that she would.

Twenty-eight. Two plus eight equals ten. One and zero. Uh oh… One. A paralyzingly unlucky number. The number of sacrifice. Her chest constricted further.

Dr. Rosen’s nurse stood and walked down the hall. Mira watched her, twisting a Kleenex into a corkscrew, more of a nervous wreck than usual. The test results would seal her fate, the predestination that she had been struggling to avoid since birth.

The three other patients waiting and Mira made four: a stable, balanced number, but not good enough. There had to be a way to annihilate that one.

She sighed and glanced around the room. A Wandering Jew hung in a macrame hangar near the window. The first vine had thirteen leaves. One and three makes four again. She took a deep, relaxing breath. Her chest muscles eased some. The second vine had ten. One plus zero. One again. Her pulse escalated as neck muscles cramped. If she added the four and one she’d have a five. Even numbers were safer but this was midway. Adventurous yet solid. She felt a dull ache beneath her rib cage. If only she could stop now. But she’d have to count the other vines; she knew she took after her dad in that way: compelled, as always, to finish what was begun.

She multiplied the fifty leaves by the number of vines: twenty. One thousand. One plus three zeros. The horror of one was just slicing into her mind when the nurse said, “Ms. Jacyk? Doctor will see you now.”

Mira stumbled across the room and down the crisp white hallway with the chain of mini Monet prints—ten of them, or one—clinging to the walls. The ache in her chest had increased to a steady throb. The nurse led her to the examination room at the end of the hall. Still unsteady, Mira sat in the white chair next to the small desk.

Dr. Rosen followed her in. He carried a red file folder with her name typed across the flap. She already knew that by assigning the letters of the alphabet numbers from one to twenty-six, the letters of her name added up to one. And she’d been the only child of a single parent. She’d been trying to pay off that solitary karma all her life.

“Mira.” He smiled, a bit crookedly, and she counted seven upper teeth. She wondered if he had all thirty-two, like her father. Three and two. Five.

“We’ve received the results from your EKG.” His mouth was tight but not nearly as severe as her dad’s. Her heartbeat accelerated and the ache intensified. “I don’t want to frighten you, but it looks as though you’ve suffered a myocardial infarction. A mild heart attack.”

He paused. The silence made her aware that she was shaking. To keep from falling apart completely, Mira concentrated on counting the pencils and pens in his tray. Six pencils, five pens, plus the ballpoint in his hand. One plus two. Three. The number of change. Amidst the fear she felt a glimmer of elation.

“I think we should look on the positive side,” he said. “Take this as an early warning. Now’s the time to make lifestyle changes. I’ve reviewed the results of your cholesterol test and the cardiovascular evaluation. There’s room for improvement in both areas. Here’s a diet that’s worked very well in cases like yours.” He handed her one sheet of daily menus: three per day for seven days. Twenty-one. Two plus one. Three. “High in fiber and carbohydrates, low in fatty foods. We’ll also get you on an exercise plan, walking, swimming, easy at first and gradually we’ll have your pulmonary status to where it should be.”

Mira had stopped listening. She’d been studying the numbers on his large day planner attached to the wall. One plus two plus three plus four, all the way to thirty-one. Adding each of the digits together produced four hundred and ninety six. Adding four, nine and six gave her nineteen. One and nine equaled ten. One. It would be unfair to add in the number values of the word December to try to dilute that one. Her father always said what goes around, comes around. He’d never blamed her for her mother, never said a word. Not one word.

“… but the main difficulty I see,” Dr. Rosen was saying, “is that you’ve got to learn to relax. Are you worried about anything in particular, Mira, because if you are…”

“No. Nothing. I’m fine.”

She counted the value of each letter of his name. Hal Z. Rosen. One. She felt her left eyelid spasm uncontrollably.

“Tomorrow is the first day of a new year,” he reminded her.

Day one. The first. The last. The beginning of one life, the end of another. She was born on January 1st, the day her mother had died of heart failure.

“Many people make New Year’s resolutions. Why don’t we think of this as a time for you to make some healthy changes in your life. It wouldn’t hurt to study a relaxation technique. Yoga might be helpful.”

Mira stared out the window. One car went by. A 1990 Chevrolet. Everywhere she looked the message blared, indelibly imprinting itself on her soul. All her life she’d known things would have been different if only her mother hadn’t died giving her life. Her father had said that often enough. If only she could reverse this perverse fate. But again her dad’s words rang true—“nobody cheats God.”

“… we only have one heart. We have to take care of it. Even when a weakness of the heart runs in a family, there’s a lot one can do to reverse what seems inevitable. Make another appointment—say in three weeks—we’ll see how you check out then.”




By the time Mira reached home she had convinced herself that the universe was sending her a message. Dr. Rosen was the medium. Atonement was possible, despite the dismal view of life her father had drummed into her head. Change was in store. She began in the kitchen. Mira cut off the broom handle to add a fifth leg to her kitchen table. Four chairs with four legs each made sixteen, plus the five table legs. Twenty-one. Two plus one equaled the fortuitous three. Next she cleaned out the cupboards, chucking a tin of tuna so that the cans numbered nine. There were nineteen leaves left on the Boston lettuce. One went into the garbage chute in the hallway. Glasses, dishes, her mother’s good silverware that she’d begged her dad for when she’d been old enough to appreciate it, were counted. The number of napkins left in the package. The pages of each cookbook.

Moving to the living room she panicked and shredded a throw cushion then, realizing she had miscounted, frantically shredded another. The middle of her chest still ached but she knew she had to finish or there would be no peace. Forty minutes later eight flower pots were left, a dozen magazines, forty-seven compact discs, and just two coasters, but the last didn’t matter because only her father visited, when he was in town.

The bedroom was easy. Long ago Mira had made a tally of the pink tea roses on the curtains and matching bedspread. She counted underwear, socks, hangers in the closet. She checked the bathroom, adding up Stimudent picks, assessing how many ounces of vaginal douche were left in the bottle, checking her weight on the scale in both pounds and kilograms. The model number on the blow dryer totaled six. The shower curtain rod held nine rings.

By the time Mira finished it was midnight. One and two. The eve of a new year. Change was underway, she could feel it. She called her father and left a “Happy New Year” message on his machine, secretly relieved that she didn’t have to talk to him. Especially tonight. Now that she had taken control of her future, she didn’t need any negative influences jinxing her efforts.

Despite the ache in her chest that had turned into a dull pain, she celebrated by brewing herself two cups of Earl Grey tea, using two bags, and bringing them into the bedroom so she could lie down and listen to the radio.

She sipped from one cup, then from the other, and closed her eyes. The broadcast from Times Square was lively. Normally she hated New Year’s Eve and spent the evening alone, except when her father was around. For once she felt in tune with such exuberance. There was a feeling of transformation in the air. Out with the old, in with the new. Dr. Rosen was right. Relaxation was the key. Her fate was, after all, in her own hands, not some crazy numerology system. She’d been pushing herself. The pain in her chest was becoming sharp.

She took in a deep breath. Air filled the pockets of her lungs and she expelled it in two easy breaths. The chest pain dulled a bit. Her arms and legs felt heavy, her neck and chest began to lighten. Tension floated away.

Her eyes snapped open and her heart slammed hard against her chest wall. How could she be so stupid? She raced to the tool box for the tape measure. The floor. Ten by nineteen. One hundred ninety. One and nine. A small cry burst from her. Double that for the ceiling, but the height of the walls had to be counted as well. She climbed a chair with two phone books on the seat. The rooms dimensions totaled a number that, when the digits were added together, produced three. But Mira knew she had to count the dimensions of all the rooms or it would be cheating. The living room, the kitchen. She totaled them on her calculator. Only the bathroom was left.

Pain stabbed her chest every few seconds. She placed the chair with the phone books in the tub for a little extra height. Her breath came in shallow warning gasps. This last set of numbers, she thought, will be final. She added the bathroom numbers in with the dimensions of the other rooms. The total of everything added together eventually broke down to the number three. She was in physical pain but emotional relief.

As her foot felt for the tub rim, Mira glanced at her digital watch. One a.m. The phone books slid apart and she toppled sideways, twisting, grasping, finding nothing concrete to grab on to. Her face smashed against the sink. She heard a crack at the base of her neck. The side of her head slammed onto hard floor tiles.

Consciousness returned slowly. Time blurred. Images flowed by: dragging her body to the phone… ambulance attendants in deathly white… police officers in mourners black… a light dazzling enough to usher in those being born… or to draw out the dying.

She tried to cry out for mercy, but a clear plastic mask over her mouth and nose silenced her. “Count backward from ten,” a voice commanded.

Ten to one…




Later, another voice. “A shame. One vertebra, damaged irrevocably. Paralyzed for life.”

And her father’s face, smiling.




Mira could not see her useless body, but she sensed her cells beginning the long, torturous process of decomposition. They would break down first in large groups then individually until finally the last would dissolve. A fitting offering to the god of one. The stem god of sacrifice. A demanding god who had finally been paid off. Or had he?

She needed to know for sure. A sign. A number would indicate whether or not he had been appeased once and for all. But Mira’s head was locked in place. Forever. Her field of vision limited to the ceiling. Blank, empty whiteness. Cold terror burned through her stomach and up her chest and stabbed the back of her throat, ready to spew from her mouth. There was nothing to count! No way of ever being certain.

She squeezed her eyes and mouth shut to contain the dry ice wail. Frost on the inside of her eyelids condensed into a face. Her father’s face. It swirled and shifted and became someone else’s face and that one melted into someone else… This was the sign!

Mira counted the faces, starting with her father’s. Then her four coworkers at the office: Mary, Lucy, Jason, Betty—and the twelve tenants in her apartment building: The Fairwells, Mrs. Owen—Wait! She’d better count that woman who only worked one week then quit… what was her name? And the couple who sublet the Andrews’ apartment: that made nineteen, one and nine… one! Her two cousins and three aunts and one uncle and two grandparents still living, her father’s friends: twenty-three… Yes, there were plenty to count: five people at the laundry—And what about the woman walking out the door as she walked in…? Twenty-seven worshipers the last time she’d attended church… or was it twenty-eight—?

The total was fifty-six… No!… fifty-seven… five plus seven… twelve… one plus two… three… the faces changed so fast! The supermarket, the subway, Christmas shopping, she was on the up escalator, how many were coming down? Four customers in line at the corner grocery, two at the dry cleaners… Did she get them all? The three men who empty the trash cans every Thursday… No, wait: six shoppers at the corner store… that totaled what?—the people who read the news on television—

Eventually she would reach that final number… The hair stylist and shampoo girl at the salon—Why couldn’t she keep track?… she’d have to start over: her father, Mary, Lucy, Jason: four… and Betty: five… Doctor Rosen’s three patients and her dentist’s patients—

—and ultimately when she saw that final, conclusive number—Oh! a snapshot of her girl scout troop—If only she could use the calculator… she’d have to start all over: her father, Mary, Lucy—

—that final number would—the boys on the high school football team—faces sped by—the thirty-three hundred seventy-two students pictured in her graduating glass photo—start again: her father, Mary—

—would seal—her college roommate Virginia and her parents—and Virginia’s brother’s girlfriend—and her parents—and—

—her fate—the paperboy—and his—

… She’d better go back: her father—




THE LIONS IN THE DESERT

by David Langford







Born in 1953 in South Wales, David Langford now lives in Reading, Berkshire, presumably in a fortified compound to protect himself from angry mobs who have read his monthly fanzine, Ansible. Ansible is two pages of teeny-tiny print packing in lots and lots of news and gossip of the science fiction and fantasy scene. As much of it is presented with a sharply biting wit, many of those mentioned in Ansible would rather their names not have appeared there.

Recently Langford has published a collection of his parodies, The Dragonhikers’ Guide to Battlefield Covenant at Dune’s Edge: Odyssey Two, a collection of his funny/critical science fiction writings, Let’s Hear It For the Deaf Man, and says: “Necronomicon Press should be doing a booklet of tasteless Langford stories this spring or summer. My suggested title was A Second Cartographic Survey of Yuggoth, but from the way they ignore this proposal I think they’re trying to tell me something.”

There is, however, a serious side to Langford’s writing, as you’re about to see.










“…further information on the elusive topic of polymorphism is said by some sources to be held in the restricted library of the Jasper Trant Bequest (Oxford, England).”

    

(Various references, from about 1875 onward.)







“How shall one catch the lions in the desert?” said young Keith Ramsey in his riddling voice, as he poured hot water into the unavoidable instant coffee.

After a week of nights on the job with him, I knew enough to smile guardedly. Serious proposals of expeditions, nets, traps, or bait were not required. Despite his round pink face and general air of being about sixteen, Keith was a mathematics D.Phil. (or nearly so) and had already decided to educate me in some of the running jokes of mathematicians. It could be interesting, in an obsessive way. The answers to the riddle were many and manifold.

“I thought of a topological method,” he said. “See, a lion is topologically equivalent to a doughnut…”

“What?”

“Well, approximately. A solid with a hole through it—the digestive tract, you know. Now if we translate the desert into four-dimensioned space, it becomes possible to knot the lion by a continuous topological deformation, which would leave it helpless to escape!”

I have no higher mathematics, but dire puns were allowed, “parallel lions” and the like. “Er, geometrically the desert is approximately a plane,” I suggested. “With the lions on it. Simply hijack the plane, and…”

He groaned dutifully, and we both drank the awful coffee supplied by the Trant to its loyal security force. Keith had converted his to the usual syrup with four spoonfuls of sugar. After all my care in dosing the sugar bowl, I was pleased that he took the correct measure.

“Deformation,” he said again, with what might have been a shiver. “You know, Bob, I wish they hadn’t shown us that picture. For me it’s night-watchman stuff or the dole, but every time I put on this wretched imitation policeman rig, I can feel things crawling all over my grave.”

“I never feel things like that—I’m too sensible. The original Man Who Could Not Shudder. But I sort of know what you mean. It reminded me of that bit in Jekyll and Hyde, if you ever read it…?”

He looked into the half-drunk coffee and sniffed; then snapped his skinny fingers. “Oh, ugh, yes. The awful Mr Hyde walking right over the kid in the street. Crunch, crunch, flat against the cobbles. Thank you very much for reminding me. Yes, I suppose it was like that.”

“They say down at the Welsh Pony that the turnover of guards here is pretty high for a cushy job like this. I have the impression they last about six weeks, on average. Funny, really.”

“Hilarious, mate. Look, what do you think happened to that bloke last year?”

“Maybe he opened one of the forbidden books,” I offered. “A hell of a thing when even a trusty pair like us gets told to keep clear of Area C.”

A gray man in a gray suit had hired me on behalf of the Trant Trustees. Amazingly little was said about career prospects, union representation or even—the part I was naturally curious about—the precise nature of what the two night guards actually guarded. Books were said to enter into it.

Instead: “I should warn you, Mr Ames, that certain people are intensely interested in the Trant Bequest. Last year, just outside the… that is, outside Area C, one of your predecessors was found like this. His colleague was not found at all.” He showed me a photograph without apparently caring to glance at it himself. The spread-eagled remains did not slot handily into anyone’s definition of how a corpse should look. Someone had, as Keith would have put it, tried bloody hard to translate him into two-dimensioned space.




“How shall one catch the lions in the desert?” he repeated, now badly slurred. The sugar treatment had taken longer than I had expected. “The method of the Sieve of Eratosthenes is to make an exhaustive list of all the objects in the desert and to cross off all the ones which on examination prove… prove not to be… To cross off…” Abandoning thought experiment number umpty-tum, he slumped to the table, head on arms, dribbling slightly over the sleeve of his nice navy-blue uniform. I thought of hauling him across to his bunk, but didn’t want to jog him back into wakefulness. With any luck he’d reach the morning with nothing worse than a touch of cramp. I rather liked young Keith: some day, maybe, he’d make a fine maths tutor with his games and jokes. If he could rouse interest in a dull pragmatist like me…

Certain people are intensely interested in the Jasper Trant Bequest. I am one of them. I slotted my special disk into the sensor-control PC and moved quietly out of the room.

Area A of the big house on Walton Street is mostly an impressive front hall, crusted with marble, chilled by a patterned quarry-tile floor too good (the Trustee said) to cover up with carpeting. Maggie, the black, shiny and very nearly spherical receptionist, reigns here from nine to five, Monday to Saturday—grumbling about the feeble electric fan-heater, nodding to the daily Trustee delegation, repelling any and all doomed enquiries for a reader’s card. I had yet to research the turnover time of Maggie’s job. The “guardroom” and a small, unreconstructed Victorian lavatory complete Area A.

Once upon a time, it was said, Jasper Trant saw something nasty in the woodshed. The people who strayed into the Bequest between nine and five had often gathered as much from odd sources—a footnote in Aleister Crowley, a sidelong reference in (of all places) H.P. Lovecraft. They came hoping for secret words of power, the poor fossils. Modern spells are written in bright new esoteric languages like C++ and 80486 extended assembler. This was the glamour I’d cast over the real-time monitoring system that logged all movement in Area B.

“It’s like something out of fucking Alien,” Keith Ramsey had said the day before. “All those narrow twisty corridors… it’s designed to make you expect something’s going to jump out at you from round the next corner, or chase you through the bits where you can’t run because you’ve got to go sideways.”

Naturally I’d been thinking about it, too, and had replied: “My guess is, it was designed that way to make it hard to bring in heavy cutting equipment. Or a trolly big enough to truck out the library. Assuming there really is a library.”

“Mmm… or maybe it was just fun to design. Everyone likes mazes, and why not old Trant? He was a maths don, wasn’t he? You know there’s a general algorithm for solving any maze. No, not just “follow the left-hand wall,” that only works without unconnected internal loops. To find the center as well as getting out again, what you do is…”

I was fascinated, but Area B isn’t quite that complex. It fills almost all the building, winding up, down and around to pass every one of the (barred) windows, and completely enclosing the central volume in its web of stone and iron. You might get lost for a while, but there are no actual dead ends, or only one.

“You wouldn’t get planning permission for that nowadays,” Keith had said gloomily. “Bloody indoor folly.”

I moved along the eighteen-inch passageways now. The dull yellow lamps, too feeble and too widely spaced, bred a writhing mass of shadows. (When the gas-brackets were in use, it must have been far worse.) Our desultory patrols were set to cover the whole labyrinth, with one exception: the short spur where the sensors clustered thickest. Daily at 10 AM the gray-headed Trustee and his two hulking minders went down this forbidden path to—consult? check? dust? pay homage to? “Feed the Bequest,” came Keith’s remembered voice, now artificially hollow. “His expensive leather briefcase, Bob, simply has to be packed with slabs of raw meat. Flesh which is… no longer of any human shape!”

Remembering the photograph of a certain ex-guard, it was possible to feel apprehension. I thought also of my reconnaissance down at the Welsh Pony pub off Gloucester Green, where it was almost a standing joke that people didn’t wear a Trant guard’s navy uniform for long. They did not all suffer freak accidents: that would be absurd. By and large, they merely tended to leave after that average six weeks. You could speculate, if you chose, that something had frightened them. The heavy, regulation torch was a comfort in my hand.

Somewhere the real-time watchdog system dreamed its dreams, fed a soothingly “normal” pattern of patrol movements by my rogue software, registering nothing at all in the dense minefield of IR and ultrasonic pickups that guarded the way to Area C.




Left, right, left, and there in torchlight was the door: big, grim, banded with iron, deep-set in its massive frame, with a lock the size of a VCR unit. I was half inclined to turn back at that point, because it was joke. Modern burglars flip open those jumbo Victorian lever-and-ward efforts almost without breaking step. As part of my personal quest, I’d entered other restricted libraries (including sections of the BM and Bodleian known to very few) and had never seen such a lumbering apology for a lock. But after all, and hearteningly, there was the maze and the electronic network… something here was surely worth guarding.

“How shall one catch the lions in the desert?” I quoted to myself as I felt for the lock-spring, remembering one of Keith’s sillier answers: the hunter builds a cage, locks himself securely in, and performs an inversion transformation so that he is considered to be outside while all the lions are inside, along with the desert, the Earth, the universe… Perhaps Jasper Trant had liked mathematical jokes. He was here at just about the right time to have known Lewis Carroll, another of Keith’s heroes whom I must look up some day.

I was here because of a rumor that Trant’s preoccupations, Trant’s bequest, had a personal connection with—well—myself.

Click and click again. The door swung ponderously inward, and the first torchlit glimpse swept away half my uncertainties. Area C, where the movement sensors did not extend, was indeed a library—a forty-foot-square room with wooden bookcases scattered along its iron walls. Ceiling and floor were likewise made of, or lined with, dull iron. A vault.

All this profusion was a disappointment. I had flicked through libraries before. The literature of the occult is stupendously boring and repetitive… it may contain many small secrets, but I had very much hoped that dead Jasper Trant knew one big secret.

Must smells: old books, old iron, and a thin reek of what might have been oil. Keeping close to the wall, I moved cautiously clockwise to the first bookcase. An average turnover time of six weeks. Easing out a random volume with a cracked calf spine, I shone the torch on its title page to find what blasting, forbidden knowledge…

The Principles of Moral and Political Philosophy by William Paley, D.D.: The Twelfth Edition, corrected by The Author. Vol I. MDCCXCIX. Crammed with edifying stuff about Christianity.

Jesus Christ.

The next one was called The Abominations of Modern Society. These included swearing, “leprous newspapers” and “the dissipations of the ballroom,” and the author didn’t approve of them at all. Then another volume I of Paley… sermons… more sermons… numbing ranks of sermons… a third copy of the identical Paley tract.

I scanned shelf after shelf, finding more and more of the same dull book-dealers’ leavings. Junk. All junk. The Bequest library was a fake. Not even a volume of dear old Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

On the other hand, where does the wise man hide a pebble? On the beach. Where does the wise man hide a leaf…?

Perhaps. In the center of the far wall, opposite the door, my flicking circle of torchlight found a cleared space and a long metal desk or table. One the steel surface, an old-fashioned blotting pad; on the pad, a book like a ledger that lay invitingly open. Cautiously, cautiously, now. There was something almost too tempting about…

What I felt was minute but inexplicable. I might have put it down to nerves, but I never suffer from nerves. A sinking feeling? I backed rapidly away, and my bootheel snagged on something, a slight step in the floor. The floor had been smooth and even. Now the torch beam showed bad news: a large rectangle of iron had sunk noiselessly, with the metal table and myself on it, just less than half an inch into the floor. I thought hydraulics, whipped around instantly and blurred toward the door faster than anyone I have ever met could have managed. Too late.

It was all very ingenious. Victorian technology, for God’s sake. The 3-D maze construction of Area B must have concealed any amount of dead space for tanks, conduits, and machinery. Now, tall vertical panels within the deep door frame had hinged open on either side to show iron under the old wood, and oiled steel bars moved silkily out and across, barring the way. By the time I reached the door, the closing space was too narrow: I could have thrust myself a little way in, only to have neat cylinders punched out of me. The heavy rods from the left finished gliding into their revealed sockets at the right. And that was that.

The space between the bars was about four unaccommodating inches. I thought hard. I still knew one big thing, but was it needed? “Well, I was just curious,” I imagined myself saying with a slight whine to Gray Suit in the morning. “It’s a fair cop. I don’t suppose, ha ha, there’s any chance you could keep me on? No? Oh well, that’s the luck of the game,” and bye-bye to the Jasper Trant Bequest.

Everyone gets curious after a while. Practically anybody would grow overcome with curiosity in an average time of, say, six weeks. Thus the staff turnover. Thus…

No. I don’t pretend to be an expert on human psychology, but surely sooner or later the Trant would end up hiring someone too loyal or too dull to take a peep, and they’d duly hold down the job for years on end.

For the sake of form I tested the bars—immovable—and went back to learn what I might from the disastrous ledger. It was all blank sheets except for where it had lain open. That page carried a few lines of faded blue-black ink, in the sort of clerkly hand you might expect from Bob Cratchit.




Jasper Trant said in his Last Will and Testament that once as a magistrate of the Oxford courts he saw a shape no man could believe, a thing that crawled from a cell window where no man might pass and left nought behind. All through his life he puzzled over this and sought a proof. Here is his bequest.




Here was what bequest? Was this slender snatch of gossip the root of all those rumors about Trant’s secret lore of shape-shifters and changelings? Something was missing. Or perhaps I had not thought it through. The path seemed clear: wait till morning, own up like a man, and walk out of the building forever. No problem.

It was then that I looked properly at the steel table which supported the book. It was dreadfully like a medical examination couch. Two huge minders always accompanied the Trustee on his morning visit to Area C. Suddenly I was sure that no errant security guard was allowed to say good-bye without being carefully prodded and probed. Which would not do at all.

The Trant Bequest had circulated its own damned rumors, and fed the fires by refusing any access to its worthless collection. Bait.




How shall one catch the lions in the desert? There was one answer that Keith repeated with a tiny sneer because it wasn’t pure maths but mathematical physics. I know even less physics than maths, but swiftly picked up the jeering tone… protective coloration. The theoretical physicist’s answer: Build a securely locked cage in the centre of the desert. Wave mechanics says there is always a tiny but non-zero probability that any particular wave/particle, including a lion, might be in the cage. Wait.

With the long patience of the dead, Jasper Trant had waited.

Shit, I thought, seeing another facet. After six weeks on average, if they hadn’t given way to curiosity, each successive Trant guard would be sacked on some excuse or another, to make way for the testing of the next in line. No one who wanted to infiltrate the Bequest would have to wait for long.

I sighed. Four inches between the bars. This would take time and not be at all comfortable. I could not stay around for a possible medical examination: every instinct screamed against it, and I trust my instincts. The Trant Bequest had nothing more to tell me about myself.

So. Off with that smart uniform. The dull, painful trance of change, writhing to and fro on that death-cold iron floor, in the dark. Bones working as in a dream. Muscle-masses shifting, joints dislocating, rewriting the map of myself. The ribs are one thing; the pelvic and cranial sutures are very much harder work to part and rejoin. It went on and on, until at length I was a grotesque flat parody of the Bob Ames who had entered an eternity before. Even so, it would be a long hard wriggle. By now I must look like…

Well, specifically, like the dead and flattened guard in that photograph. Could he have been—? No, it wouldn’t make sense, there was a real autopsy and everything. But I did examine the bars more closely, in fear of some hidden trap. Then I stood back and glimpsed the trap too obvious to be noticed.

Jasper Trant himself had seen something slip from an Oxford jailhouse cell. Through the bars, no doubt. Bars, no doubt, set just as far apart as those now blocking the Area C door. There was another subtlety here. If this was a snare for people like myself, set by his long-departed curiosity, why the loophole?

Almost I could hear Keith’s voice, the eager voice of the mathematician: Didn’t you read the mention of “proof” in the book? Wasn’t I telling you last night about the austere kind of maths reasoning we call an existence proof? Trant wasn’t collecting for a zoo… he was a mathematician and all his Trustees want is the existence proof. Which they’d certainly have, if after walking in there and triggering the hydraulics you got out through that impossible gap. Don’t you see?

I saw, and was profoundly grateful to Keith for the patterns of reasoning he’d shown me. It was heady stuff, this reason, a shiny and unfamiliar tool. I couldn’t stay and I couldn’t go. Knowledge is power and human ignorance is my safeguard. After the long years’ trek from that damned children’s home in search of more of my kind, whatever kind that might be, I did not propose the betrayal of confirming to these… others… that my own kind existed. Which left me caught, like the lion in the desert who (“Ever heard the psychologist’s method, Keith?”) builds around him, deduction by deduction, the bars of his own intangible cage.




Yes, I owe a great deal to young Keith. Education is a wonderful thing; he taught me how to be a lion. And at the last I remembered one thing that he’d explained to me, sentences falling over each other in his enthusiasm… the technique of reducing a difficulty to a problem that has already been solved. All else then follows. Q.E.D.

It was solved, I think, last year.

Caught in this exact dilemma, what did my anonymous cousin do then? He could escape the cage, but at the cost of leaving the Trustees their proof. I salute him for his splendid piece of misdirection. Then as now, there was a second guard, no doubt asleep back in the control room. No live man could have slipped through those bars after springing the trap, but a dead man, topologically equivalent but stamped and trampled and flattened… In the morning, outside the barred doorway of Area C, there lay an object that might just have been—that to any rational mind must have been—hauled and crushed with brutal force through one narrow space. Hauled from outside the cage. A bizarre and suspicious circumstance, but not one which quite proved anything.

So logic points the way. I’m sorry to be doing this, Keith. I’m truly grateful for all our conversations, and will try to make quite sure that you feel no pain.




TURNING THIRTY

by Lisa Tuttle







Here’s a question you’ll be quizzed on: Name two writers and one editor from this book who were each barred from the same British Science Fiction Society Open Night by Christopher Priest. Are you reading this, Langford? Yes! The correct answer is Karl Edward Wagner, Dennis Etchison, and Lisa Tuttle! Well, we were grudgingly allowed entry and permitted to buy our own drinks, but we were not to eat anything from the buffet despite having offered to pay. Etchison had two plates anyway. Don’t know about Tuttle.

Lisa Tuttle has been weaving tales of quietly disturbing horror fiction for some years now and is finally gaining widespread acclaim. Of herself, she writes: “I was born in Houston, Texas in 1952 but have lived in the UK since 1980. After spending ten years in the London area I moved to the West Coast of Scotland with Colin Murray. We’re married and have a daughter who’ll be three next month—how time flies! My most recently published books were a short story collection, Memories of the Body: Tales of Desire and Transformation (UK only; Grafton, 1991) and a novel, Lost Futures (also 1992; published as part of Dell’s Abyss line in the US, and by Grafton over here). Just before Christmas I finished a new novel called The Pillow Friend, and I’m now working on a horror story for slightly younger readers. I used to say I was a full-time writer, but since Emily was born I write when she lets me, which isn’t very often.”





I walked into the pub off the Gray’s Inn Road and saw him slouching at the bar, and it was as if no time had passed.

The pub was one where we’d often met, and which I’d not visited since. I went in there today because I wanted a drink. It wasn’t nostalgia or anything; to tell the truth, I’d hardly taken in where I was. The pub just happened to be the one I was passing at the moment I realized I really could not face the tube just then without a little lubricant.

With the end of our affair, we’d ceased to see each other. It wasn’t something that had to be arranged: we have never moved in the same circles, and our one mutual acquaintance had moved to America soon after she’d introduced us. About two years after the last good-bye I had seen Nick in Holborn Underground station: I was on the down escalator and he was ascending; I don’t think he saw me. The sight of him sent me into such a spin that I actually forgot where I was going.

Now at the sight, so familiar five years ago but not since, of my one and only adulterous lover, I came unanchored in time. I felt a little jolt, as if I’d seen a ghost, and then I shivered as that old sado-masochistic cocktail of lust and anger and loneliness began to spread throughout my system, and I went up to him with a sort of casual, sort of wicked grin, the way I used to, as if we’d planned this meeting and I was pretending we hadn’t.

He was exactly the same. Those might have been the same pair of jeans, the same denim jacket, the same Doc Martens he’d been wearing the evening I’d first put my hand on his thigh under the table in the Cafe Pacifico. It was maybe not quite the same haircut, but definitely the same wire-framed glasses, the same blue eyes, and the same slightly crooked front teeth that showed when he grinned the same loopy grin.

Which he did, hugely, at the sight of me, and I realized he was honestly pleased to see me. He’d never been one to disguise his feelings, unlike every other man I’d ever been with.

“You look wonderful,” he said.

“You look like a refugee from the seventies. Still. And I’ll bet they’re not even Levi’s—Marks and Sparks’ own brand, am I right?”

“I was never a slave to designer labels, and, as you can see, success hasn’t changed me.”

“You’re successful.”

“Meet my backer.” He introduced me to the man he’d been drinking with; despite my hopeful first impression, he wasn’t alone. I was about to make my excuses, but the man in the suit beat me to it: cordial smile and nods all around, and he was off. Nick ordered me a whiskey and dry ginger and I didn’t stop him, although I didn’t like the mixture. It was what I’d always drunk with him, and that he still remembered pleased me.

We gave each other cautious, curious looks.

“Well,” he said.

“Your backer?”

“I’m making a film. Didn’t you know? There was a piece about me in the Face. In April.”

“I must have missed that issue.”

“I did a film for Channel Four. Part of the four-minute film series. Ratphobia. Did you see it?”

“No. Sorry. I didn’t know. The TV Times is another one of those must-reads that I just don’t… You should have sent me a card.”

“I would have. But you told me once a long time ago never to darken your door again and that included your office mail.”

I didn’t know what to say to that because it was true, and he sounded hurt. I was always saying things to hurt and then feeling abashed by my success. An awkward silence fell, for about twenty-three seconds, and then my drink arrived.

“Cheers.”

“Confusion to your enemies.”

I would have to stay at least until I’d finished my drink, and all at once that seemed too long. We had nothing to say to each other; we never had. Back in the days when we were seeing each other, if we weren’t making love we were either flirting or fighting; there was nothing else for us, no comfortable middle ground, none of the common interests on which friendships are built. He hadn’t the least understanding of, or interest in, my work, and as for him, well, at the time when I knew him his film-making aspirations had progressed no further than production work on a couple of pop videos. He spent a lot of time talking himself up to various people who might help his career, and when he talked to me, too often the same well-practiced, self-aggrandizing phrases came rolling out. I hated it. Not only because I mistrusted people who tried to impress me, but because I felt he wasn’t talking to me at those times, but performing for an imaginary audience. So I would not admire; I refused to be impressed. And I did my best (in a phrase of my grandmother’s), to cut him down to size.

Sometimes I didn’t even have to try. How could the names he dropped impress me if I’d never heard them before? I know he found my ignorance of famous film directors and musical megastars difficult to credit. But although he was only four years younger than me, we belonged to different generations, culturally speaking. I’d stopped paying attention to pop music in about 1978, whereas Nick still bought singles and read things like the Face and NME.

“You still working in the same place?” he asked suddenly.

“And still doing the same thing.” I wondered if he remembered what it was.

“That’s good,” he said. “I guess you’re happy?”

“Well, I need the money. It’s easier working than finding a backer.”

“You’re not kidding! But really, it’s a great project. I’ve got a script by—d’you remember that book that came out a few years ago, the one everyone was talking about, a big novel about—”

I gulped at my drink and felt an unexpected pleasure at the warm, bubbly kick of it.

Then Nick was excusing himself, ordering another round before he left and before I could stop him. It occurred to me that I could slip away while he was in the loo. On the other hand, I wasn’t ready to go home, and I didn’t particularly want to go somewhere else and drink alone. The first drink had mellowed me, but I wanted more.

As I put my empty glass on the bar I looked up and saw Nick walking toward me, a sight from the past I never thought I’d see again. Maybe because we were both married and always met in the center of London, well away from both our homes, my most common image of Nick is of suddenly picking out his figure against a background of strangers in some public place, coming toward me along the Tottenham Court Road, weaving among the tables in a large restaurant, or between the other drinkers in this very pub.

He had one of those long, awkward bodies you often see on adolescents. Even now, past thirty, he looked as if he hadn’t quite grown into it. Totally unathletic, of course, with a stooping, hip-slung stance. Watching this once so familiar body come toward me, I was seized with lust.

Lust is, for me, a particularly intense variety of memory. I can’t imagine feeling it for a stranger. For someone I’ve just met I might feel interest or attraction, but not lust—no more lust than love. Nick was the first man for whom I ever felt lust without loving, and even with him it was hardly lust at first sight. I thought him attractive in a kind of young, funky, nonthreatening way. My reasons for contemplating sex with him had more to do with my feelings for my husband than for Nick. I was furiously angry with Peter, desperate to right the balance of our dying marriage by taking a lover. When Nick made it obvious he was attracted to me, I felt a resurgence of a female power which Peter had all but destroyed in me.

What started out of curiosity, anger, loneliness, and revenge became something else after the first kiss. Sex, when we got to it, was explosive, quite unlike anything I’d expected, or experienced, before. It was wonderful and terrible. I’d never had orgasms so violent. Afterward I hated him for making me feel so intensely, hated him because I wanted him so fiercely and specifically.

Now I began to remember, in a pornographic, filmic rush. Positions we had used in our fierce and frantic couplings those few times we had the opportunity—on the floor, against the wall, in the bath, as well as in the beds. Even more powerful, because I’d always been left wanting more, were memories of our more public embraces, on the street, under bridges or in doorways, when we had no time, or nowhere to go, yet were desperate with desire.

It was just then, in my unusually vulnerable state, that the music began. It came from the jukebox: a plaintive love song first popular about twelve years ago. The summer I fell in love with Peter that song was to be heard on every radio, at every party, from every jukebox in the land. It was no longer in the charts, of course, hadn’t been for a long time, but it had remained popular enough for unlucky coincidence to strike, years later: it was the song Nick had chosen as a background to his seduction of me, in this pub, five years ago. He couldn’t have failed to notice the effect it had on me, and as I never told him that I associated it with falling in love with someone else, it became from that night “our song.”

And there it was again. No wonder I forgot what year it was. I realized Nick hadn’t gone to the loo at all—he’d been remembering old times and he wanted to see if “our song” had lasted the years. I hated him and loved him for it. I could no more fight the effects of that song than I could have resisted a massive shot of muscle relaxant. Already weakened by whiskey and lust I hadn’t a prayer against the power of a sentimental song.

He saw me slumping and put his arm around me. I burst into tears.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he said.

When I stopped shaking he walked me over to the table in the corner farthest from the bar where, in the old days, we’d often spent hours drinking and driving each other crazy. He had seemed determined either to undress me or to get inside my clothes with me, and I had fought him off like a reluctant virgin, my occasional delicious lapses into surrender always broken by the fear of public indecency.

It was like old times. He was just as I’d remembered—I was just as I’d remembered, roused to a pitch of desire I’d nearly forgotten. It was as if we had spent only weeks apart, not years, just as in those days the weeks apart had felt like years.

“Don’t.”

“But you like it.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it, just don’t.”

“But why?”

“Someone might see.”

“So?”

I struggled without success to trap his hands. “I’m no exhibitionist. Anyway, you’re the movie buff. Didn’t you see The Accused?”

He gave a soundless laugh. “This isn’t that kind of bar.”

“And I’m not that kind of girl. Can we talk?”

“We’ll only end up fighting.”

“I need another drink; so do you.”

He looked at our empty glasses and sighed. When he got up to go to the bar, I followed.

We drank; we flirted; we fought. And all of a sudden the barman was calling time. That couldn’t be right. But the clock on the wall said it was, and I looked around and realized we were the only customers left.

We walked all the way down to Holborn tube station, hand in hand, like innocent lovers. The hour and the darkness gave us that freedom. Just before we reached the station he pulled me into a recessed doorway, one that had been overlooked by the homeless sleeping in others. As he kissed me, he slipped his cold hands into my layers of clothing, seeking flesh. I felt a reckless pleasure and did nothing as he eventually managed to bare one breast. I’d barely had time to feel the cold before his hot mouth left mine and closed around the nipple.

Then the heady sensation stopped. “You’re driving me crazy,” he said, low-voiced. “This is no good. I want to make love to you. Come back with me.”

“To Kent? Your wife won’t mind?”

“I’m on expenses. We can get a hotel room. I said I might have to stay overnight… In fact, I do; I’ve missed the last train.”

All our lovemaking had been in dark corners or in cheap hotels. We’d only spent the whole night together twice. I’d planned and chosen nights Peter was away, but Nick had had to call home, once from a pay phone in a station, once from the hotel room. I remembered how much I had hated those phone calls, which I’d tried not to hear. Did he say “I love you” before he said good-bye? Afterward, when he’d said it to me, I’d hit him. That had been the next to last time we’d seen each other.

All those old feelings were still there, as volatile and immediate as the touch of his lips. I wanted sex with him, violent and annihilating, but I couldn’t deal with the emotions of before and after.

“I can’t,” I said abruptly, pushing him off, fixing my clothes. “I haven’t missed my train and I’m not going to.” I began walking toward the station.

“I’m sorry,” he said humbly. Although we’d both been married, both, therefore, equally guilty, I’d reserved the role of the innocent. Of course, the husband I betrayed had already betrayed me, but I didn’t tell Nick that. From his readiness to shoulder all the guilt I guessed that I was not the first woman his wife might have cause to hate. This, of course, added to the anger I felt at him and at faithless men everywhere.

“If you knew how much I’ve missed you—how much you still mean to me—can I see you again?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Nothing’s changed. Has it?”

He looked very sad. “I guess not.”

I had a ticket, he didn’t, so I pushed through the turnstile and left him without looking back.

In my mind, though, I never stopped looking back. I had plenty of time to think, for it’s a long journey from Holborn to South Harrow, with a long, cold wait on the platform at Acton Town making it even longer at that time of night. Yet with all the time I had to think, I really didn’t think at all. I was moving on automatic pilot, going through motions learned a long time ago, while in my head, playing again and again like some cheap, sentimental, incredibly powerful song, was the memory of Nick: the rasp of his whiskers on my face, the taste of whisky on his tongue, the strength of his arms around me, the light in his eyes, his voice whispering in my ear, his face.

Tears came to my eyes and then dried up. Older recollections—highly-charged sexual moments—mingled with the memories of a few hours before. Things he’d said to me, things we’d done. Even more powerfully: all the things we hadn’t done.

I was fairly drunk. Feeling no pain, as they say—except in my heart. As I walked up the hill from South Harrow station, I cursed myself for not having gone with him, for not having seized a precious few hours of joy. Why did I always worry about what came next, why was I so desperate never to be caught out, always to behave correctly? What was the big deal about faithfulness and propriety, and getting home before dawn? It had never made me happy.

All too soon I was standing on the doorstep, trying to dig out my key from the clutter in the bottom of my handbag. I couldn’t find it, but that didn’t mean a choice between dumping everything out on the ground or ringing the bell—long ago, and without telling Peter, I had hidden a spare as insurance. The brick was still loose and the key was still there. It was a bit stiff turning in the lock, but it let me in.

The house was dark and silent. He hadn’t even left a light on for me. I felt annoyed and yet relieved that I wouldn’t have to hide my guilt and lie. With luck, I wouldn’t wake him. I switched on the light in the corridor and opened the bedroom door and then I stared in horror feeling everything, my own sense of identity, swirling madly.

The bedroom furniture had changed. The bed was in a different position. And in the bed, sleeping beside Peter, was a woman. Peter’s wife.

Not me—I wasn’t Peter’s wife any longer. I wasn’t anything to Peter. Not since our divorce had become final, more than two years ago. And for two years before that we had ceased to live as man and wife.

I stared and stared as if seeing a ghost, but the only ghost in that house was me, the ghost of myself as I had been five years ago, when I was turning thirty. Meeting Nick tonight had brought that troubled young woman back to life, made her more real than the woman I thought I was now, thirty-five and single, living in a shared flat in Kilburn, with a room and a life of her own. What sort of a life was it that could vanish so completely after a brief meeting with an old lover?

The ghost I had become stared and stared, unable to move, unable to think of how I could explain my presence when they woke, as they would at any moment, and found me here, more than four years out of my rightful place.




BLOODLETTING

by Kim Antieau







Kim Antieau was born in Louisiana in March of 1955, raised in Michigan, and now lives with her Canadian husband in White Salmon, Washington. More and more the pattern takes shape. She was reticent with regard to number of cats. Antieau has come on very strongly in the horror genre in the past several years—her record all the more impressive in that her sales were to Big Press magazines and anthologies. Her first collection of short stories, Trudging to Eden, appeared this past summer from Salamander Press.

As to how she spends her day, Antieau relates: “I will say I have so many irons in the fire right now that I should become a smithy, a welder, a vulcan, something pertaining to fire. I work as a librarian, writer, publisher, editor, and artist. I’m creator of MommaEarth Goddess Runes, a modern divination tool for women. I’m also creator of a new comic strip called Vic and Jane. I am also editor and publisher of Daughters of Nyx: a magazine of Goddess stories, mythmaking and fairy tales, plus I recently finished another novel, The Jigsaw Woman, which I hope someone will finally have the good sense to buy.”





Anna’s blood began speaking to her soon after she was hit by the car, soon after she began reading about all the killings.

Someone in the city park gunned down ten people. Another person took a shotgun to the top of the Cramer Building, began shouting “Bang! Bang!” and killed twenty people. Then there was the mother of two from Manchester who tried to kill the governor, and the teenaged boy who killed his entire family one evening after an argument about which reruns to watch: Barney Miller or M*A*S*H*.

Anna had noticed a few murders here and there before her accident. As she sat every morning sipping her tea and cutting her toast into small pieces before eating them, she would occasionally glance at the front page of the paper. More often than not, however, she flipped past the first page, scorning the headlines. “What country are we invading this week?” she would say. Then she’d turn to the Living or Entertainment sections. She liked reading the book reviews the best, planning which book to buy for her weekend reading.

Sometimes, on the way to the books, a headline would catch her eye. She would skim the article and shake her head, wondering how this woman could have killed her own children, or that man his wife.

Everything changed after the accident. Anna had been walking down Fourth Avenue on her way to her job as a secretary in an ad agency when she decided to stop at the bakery across the street. She remembered later that she had looked for cars—she was certain of it. In any case, a car hit her. She was rushed to the hospital with internal injuries. They hooked her up first to one solution and then another. For hours—days?—she watched the deep red liquid dripping into her veins.

The ad agency sent her a bouquet of flowers and a get-well card signed by everyone in the office. They told her they missed her “quiet sweetness” and wished her a speedy recovery. Her father came up from the country and offered to take her home. “The city’s no place for a hurt girl,” he had said. “I can’t take care of you here.”

She kissed his cheek and told him not to worry. Her neighbor Bev had promised to look in on her when she got out of the hospital. Besides, it would be like a vacation.

“I can sit around the house and just read and watch television,” she said. “It will be a great rest.”

Anna was grateful to be alive and even more grateful to finally leave the hospital. She had the newspaper delivered to her home every morning and began watching the early morning news shows.

“I don’t want to lose touch with the real world,” she told Bev when she brought over a poppyseed cake for Anna one morning.

Sometime later, Anna’s blood began speaking to her. She didn’t know what it said, exactly. It just seemed to buzz at her. She told herself it was her organs readjusting themselves after the accident. She told herself this as she read the front page of the morning paper. Someone else had been killed in a park in a different city. Later the buzzing grew, and she turned up the evening news to drown out the noise.

And then she remembered that she had someone else’s blood inside of her. Was that why her blood was buzzing? They had put someone else’s blood into her body. Someone she didn’t know. Someone who could have been sick. She had heard of people getting diseases from transfusions. Perhaps this was what was happening to her. Her blood was not talking to her. She laughed in the quiet of her apartment, kicking at the newspaper she had dropped at her feet. Talking blood was nonsense. She would ask the doctor about it all when she went in for her check-up.

The doctor listened to Anna’s story of buzzing blood.

“I really can’t explain it,” she said, grinning widely, letting the doctor know ahead of time that she knew how foolish she sounded. “It just buzzes. Could I have caught some strange disease during my transfusions?”

The doctor checked her out thoroughly—that was how she put it. “I have checked you out thoroughly,” she said, “and I really don’t think there is anything wrong. You’ve had a terrible shock to your system. You need time to rest. That’s why you’re at home, Anna. You haven’t let those little devils at the ad agency talk you into doing any work at home, have you?”

Anna shook her head and smiled shyly, waiting for the doctor to pinch her cheek or give her a lollipop or something. She had been silly, hadn’t she?

The days passed, and Anna read her papers and watched television. The man who killed the people in the park said voices in his head had told him to shoot those people. The man in the Cramer Building said the same thing. A woman who had killed her children said little. She pounded on her chest and cried, “Mea culpa, mea culpa!”

Bev brought over another poppyseed cake.

“Have you noticed all the crazy people lately?” Anna asked. “There are a lot of maniacs out there.”

“Yeah? They’ve always been out there.”

“No, I would have noticed,” Anna said.

“I tell you they’ve always been there,” Bev said, cracking her gum. “Haven’t you heard? The entire world has been slowly going crackers since the industrial revolution. Losing touch with the earth or something.”

Bev nibbled at her cake and looked bored. Anna stared at her. She had never noticed how harsh Bev looked before. She wore too much makeup and looked bored most of the time.

“I would have noticed,” Anna said again. She wrapped the poppyseed cake in tin foil and put it in the refrigerator. This marked the end of Bev’s visit.

Anna’s blood buzzed louder as her neighbor left the room. That night she squeezed her eyes shut and put her fingers in her ears, trying to stop the noise. That only shut out the other sounds, and all she could hear was her heart pounding and the blood coursing through her veins, talking to her, talking to her.

Her blood began telling her to do things. Bad things. She called her doctor, but she was out of town.

Anna sought solace in the papers. Perhaps she could find an answer there. The Cramer Building man had been in an auto accident before he began shooting. The man in the park had had his appendix removed a week earlier. She hurried through the papers, looking back, trying to find more clues. Maybe they had all been in the hospital; they could have all gotten blood. Maybe it had belonged to just one maniac and now it had spread and they were all going crazy. Or perhaps it was a conspiracy. Some other country was trying to sabotage the U.S. through the blood supply. Of course! She read the papers; she listened to the news. She knew there were plenty of people out there trying to get her and everyone else.

She picked up the phone and began dialing the subscription departments of several newspapers, one on the East Coast, one on the West, and one in the Midwest. She blocked out the sounds of her blood and waited for the papers.

When they arrived, she read them greedily. She knew, after she had finished, that the bad blood had gotten everywhere. People out there were listening to their blood, telling the police afterwards that they hadn’t been able to stand it anymore. They had to do what the voices told them to do.

Anna called her father.

“Anna, you were always crazy,” she heard him say. “Even as a child. Especially as a child. It’s no wonder you’re having these crazy ideas.”

She hung up on him, wondering why she had not seen earlier how cruel he was to her. In fact, she had not noticed a lot of things. She hadn’t been paying attention and look what had happened to the world.

She asked Bev over but when she saw her she had an overwhelming desire to do something bad to her, so she shoved a half-eaten poppyseed cake at her and told her to leave and never come back.

Anna sat alone in her apartment, waiting for the voices to stop. They kept telling her where she could get a gun or a knife. Be like the man in the Cramer Building, the blood said. Or go to the park. Find a politician. The voices pounded and flowed through her.

She chewed her fingernails. She could do what the voices said. Bad things. But then she would be like all the rest. And who was to say that that would make the voices stop? They might ask her to do other things.

There was only one thing to do. She went into her bathroom and took out a package of razor blades. She nicked her pinkie with one to make certain the razor was sharp. Then she sat in the living room, surrounded by her newspapers, with the evening news on in the background. Beginning at her wrists where her talking blood pulsed, she made two long deep lines down her arms.

It was time for a bloodletting.




FLYING INTO NAPLES

by Nicholas Royle







Born in Manchester in 1963, Nicholas Royle now lives in London. In very few years he has established himself as one of England’s foremost horror writers, scattering some seventy or more stories throughout the small press and the major markets. His first novel, Counterparts, appeared from Barrington Books this last autumn. I had the pleasure of attending its launch party at The Nellie Dean pub in Soho, but had to help escort a suddenly legless Irish artist back to his flat before I could snag a copy. Royle has also edited two original horror anthologies, Darklands and Darklands 2. New English Library will be reprinting these in a mass-market format, and with any luck perhaps they will reprint Counterparts as well, as it’s out of print and I never did manage to snag a copy.

Royle reports: “I’m still working as a freelance journalist to pay the bills but am being more selective about the work I take on.” He then advises me: “Watch out for the Genitorturers and their album ‘120 Days of Genitorture’ (they’re crap but the cover photos are interesting).” Yes. Rock music again. The conspiracy thickens.





Flying into Naples the 737 hits some turbulence and gets thrown about a bit. It’s dark outside, but I can’t even see any lights on the ground. I’m a nervous flyer anyway and this doesn’t make me feel any better. It’s taking off and landing that bother me.

But when we’re down and I’m crossing the tarmac to the airport buildings, there’s a warm humid stillness in the air that makes me wonder about the turbulence. I wander through passport control and customs like someone in a dream. The officials seem covered in a fine layer of dust as if they’ve been standing there for years just waiting.

No one speaks to me and I get on the bus marked “Centro Napoli.” I’m on holiday. All I’ve got in Naples is a name, a photograph, and a wrong number. The name is a woman’s—Flavia—and the photograph is of the view from her apartment. The phone number I tried last week to say I was coming turned out to belong to someone else entirely.

I’ve worked out from the photograph and my map that the apartment is on a hill on the west side of the city. There’s not much more to go on. It’s too late to go and look for it tonight. Flavia won’t be expecting me—beyond occasional vague invitations nothing has been arranged—and she could take a long time to locate.

I knew her years ago when she visited London and stayed in the hotel where I was working the bar. We knew each other briefly—a holiday romance, if you like—but something ensured I would not forget her. Whether it was the sunrise we saw together or the shock of her body in the quiet shadow of my room over the kitchens, or a combination of these and other factors—her smile, my particular vulnerability, her tumbling curls—I don’t know, but something fixed her in my mind. So when I found myself with a week’s holiday at the end of three difficult months in a new, stressful job, I dug out her letters—two or three only over eight years, including this recent photograph of the view from her apartment—and booked a last-minute flight to Naples.

I’d never been there though I’d heard so much about it—how violent and dangerous it could be for foreigners, yet how beautiful—and I would enjoy the effort required to get along in Italian.




I’m alone on the bus apart from one other man—a local who spends the 20-minute ride talking on a cellphone to his mistress in Rome—and the taciturn driver. I’ve come before the start of the season, but it’s already warm enough not to need my linen jacket.

I’m divorced. I don’t know about Flavia. She never mentioned anybody, just as she never revealed her address when she wrote to me. I’ve been divorced two years and a period of contented bachelorhood has only recently come to a natural end, and with the arrival of spring in London I have found myself watching women once again: following a hemline through the human traffic of Kensington, turning to see the face of a woman in Green Park whose hair looked so striking from behind. It may be spring in Berkeley Square but it feels like midsummer in Naples. The air is still and hot and humid when I leave the bus at the main railway station and begin walking into the center of the city in search of a cheap hotel. I imagine I’m probably quite conspicuous in what must be one of the most dangerous areas but the hotels in the immediate vicinity—the pavement outside the Europa is clogged with upturned rubbish bins; the tall, dark, narrow Esedra looks as if it’s about to topple sideways—look unwelcoming so I press on. It’s late, after 10:30 pm, and even the bars and restaurants are closed. Youths buzz past on Vespas and Piaggios unhelmeted despite the apparent dedication of the motorists here to the legend “live fast, die young.” I hold my bag close and try to look confident but after 15 minutes or so the hotels have disappeared. I reach a large empty square and head deeper into the city. I ask a gun-holstered security guard if there is a pension in the neighborhood, but he shrugs and walks away. I climb a street that has lights burning but they turn out to be a late-night bar and a fruit stand. Two boys call to me from a doorway and as I don’t understand I just carry on, but at the top is a barrier and beyond that a private apartment complex, so I have to turn back and the two boys are laughing as I walk past them.

I try in another direction but there are only banks and food stores, all locked up. Soon I realize I’m going to have to go back down to the area round the railway station. I cross the road to avoid the prostitutes on the corner of Via Seggio del Popolo, not because of any spurious moral judgment but just because it seems I should go out of my way to avoid trouble, so easy is it innocently to court disaster in a foreign country. But in crossing the road I walk into a problem. There’s a young woman standing in a doorway whom in the darkness I had failed to see. She moves swiftly out of the doorway into my path and I gasp in surprise. The streetlamp throws the dark bruises around her eyes into even deeper perspective. Her eyes are sunken, almost lost in her skull, and under her chin are the dark, tough bristles of a juvenile beard. She speaks quickly, demanding something and before I’ve collected my wits she’s produced a glittering blade from her jacket pocket which she thrusts toward me like a torch at an animal. I react too slowly and feel a sudden hot scratch on my bare arm.

My jacket’s over my other arm so I’m lucky that I don’t drop it and give the woman the chance to strike again. She lunges but I’m away down the street running for my life. When it’s clear she’s not chasing me I stop for breath. One or two passersby look at me with mild curiosity. I head back in the direction of the railway station. Down a side street on my right I recognize one of the hotels I saw earlier—the Esedra. Then I hadn’t liked the look of it, but now it’s my haven from the streets. I approach the glass doors and hesitate when I realize there are several men in the lobby. But the thought of the drugged-up woman makes me go on. So I push open the door and the men look up from their card game. I’m about to ask for a room when one of the men, who’s had a good long look at me, says something to the man behind the little counter and this man reaches for a key from room 17’s pigeon hole. I realize what’s happening—they’ve mistaken me for someone who’s already a paying guest—and there was a time when I would have been tempted to accept the key in the desire to save money, but these days I’m not short of cash. So, I hesitate only for a moment before saying that I’m looking for a room. The man is momentarily confused but gets me another key—room 19—from a hook and quotes a price. It’s cheap; the hotel is probably a haunt of prostitutes but right now I don’t care. I just need a bed for the night.

“It’s on the third floor,” the man says. I pay him and walk up. There are lightbulbs but they’re so heavily shaded the stairs are darker than the street outside. On each landing there are four doors: three bedrooms and one toilet cum shower. I unlock the door to room 19 and close it behind me.




I have a routine with hotel rooms: I lock myself in and switch on all the lights and open all the cupboards and drawers until I feel I know the room as well as I can. And I always check the window.

There are two single beds, some sticks of furniture, a bidet and a washbasin—I open the cold tap and clean up the scratch on my arm. The window is shuttered. I pull on the cord to raise the shutter. I’m overlooking the Corso Uberto I which runs up to the railway station. I step on to the tiny balcony and my hands get covered in dust from the wrought-iron railing. The cars in the street below are filmed with dust also. The winds blow sand here from the deserts of North Africa and it falls with the rain. I pull a chair on to the balcony and sit for a while thinking about Flavia. Somewhere in this city she’s sitting watching television or eating in a restaurant and she doesn’t know I’m here. Tomorrow I will try to find her.

I watch the road and I’m glad I’m no longer out there looking for shelter. Small knots of young men unravel on street corners and cross streets that don’t need crossing. After a while I start to feel an uncomfortable solidity creeping into my limbs, so I take the chair back inside and drop the shutter. I’d prefer to leave it open but the open window might look like an invitation.

I’m lying in bed hoping that sleep will come but there’s a scuttling, rustling noise keeping me awake. It’s coming from the far side of the room near the washbasin and the framed print of the ancient city of Pompeii. It sounds like an insect, probably a cockroach. I’m not alarmed. I’ve shared hotel rooms with pests before, but I want to go to sleep. There’s no use left in this day and I’m eager for the next one to begin.

Something else is bothering me: I want to go and try the door to room 17 and see why the proprietor was about to give me that key. The scratching noise is getting louder and although I can’t fall asleep I’m getting more and more tired so that I start to imagine the insect. It’s behind the picture where it’s scratched out its own little hole and it’s lying in wait for me to go and lift the picture aside and it will come at me, slow and deadly, like a Lancaster bomber. The noise works deeper into my head. The thing must have huge wings and antennae. Scratch… scratch… scratch. I can’t stand it any more. I get up, pull on my trousers and leave the room.

The stairs are completely dark. I feel my way to the next landing and switch on the light in the WC to allow me to see the numbers on the doors. I push open the door to room 17, feeling a layer of dust beneath my fingertips, and it swings open. The chinks in the shutter admit enough light to paint a faint picture of a man lying on the bed who looks not unlike me. I step into the room and feel grit on the floor under my feet. As I step closer the man on the bed turns to look at me. His lips move slowly.

“I came straight here,” he says, “instead of walking into the city to find something better.”

I don’t know what to say. Pulling up a chair I sit next to him.

“I found her,” he continues. “She lives above the city on the west side. You can see Vesuvius from her window.”

I grip his cold hand and try to read the expression on his face. But it’s blank. The words rustle in his mouth like dry leaves caught between stones.

“She’s not interested. Watch out for Vesuvius,” he whispers, then falls silent. I sit there for a while watching his gray face for any sign of life but there’s nothing. Feeling an unbearable sadness for which I can’t reasonably account I return to my room and lie flat on my back on the little bed.

The unknown insect is still busy scratching behind the ruins of Pompeii.




I wake to heavy traffic under my window, my head still thick with dreams. On my way downstairs I pause on the landing opposite room 17 and feel a tug. But I know the easiest thing is not to think too much about it and just carry on downstairs, hand in the key and leave the hotel for good. Even if I don’t manage to locate Flavia, I won’t come back here. I’d find something better.

I walk across the city, stopping at a little bar for a cappuccino and a croissant. The air smells of coffee, cigarettes and laundry. Strings of clothes are hung out in the narrow passages like bunting. Moped riders duck their heads to avoid vests and socks as they bounce over the cobbles. Cars negotiate alleys barely wide enough to walk down, drivers jabbing at the horn to clear the way. Pedestrians step aside unhurriedly and there are no arguments or remonstrations.

The sun is beating down, but there’s a haze like sheer nylon stretched above the rooftops—dust in the air. I’m just heading west and climbing through distinct areas. The class differences show up clearly in the homes—the bassi, tiny rooms that open directly on to the street, and higher up the huge apartment blocks with their own gate and security—and in the shops and the goods sold in them. Only the dust is spread evenly.

As soon as I’m high enough to see Vesuvius behind me, I take out the photograph and use it to direct my search, heading always west.

It takes a couple of hours to cross the city and locate the right street. I make sure it’s the right view before starting to read the names on the bell-pushes. The building has to be on the left-hand side of the road because those on the right aren’t high enough to have a view over those on the left. I still don’t know if I’m going to find the name or not. Through the gaps between the buildings I can see Vesuvius on the other side of the bay. By looking ahead I’m even able to estimate the exact building, and it turns out I’m right. There’s the name—F. Sannia—among a dozen others. I press the bell without thinking about it.

When Flavia comes to open the door I’m surprised. Perhaps it’s more her place to be surprised than mine, but she stands there with a vacant expression on her face. What a face, though, what extraordinary beauty. She was good looking when we first met, of course, but in the intervening years she has grown into a stunning woman. I fear to lean forward and kiss her cheeks lest she crumble beneath my touch. But the look is blank. I don’t know if she recognizes me. I say her name then my own and I must assume her acquiescence—as she turns back into the hall and hesitates momentarily—to be an invitation. So I follow her. She walks slowly but with the same lightness of step that I remember from before.

As I follow her into the apartment, I’m drawn immediately to the far side of the main room where there’s a balcony with a spectacular view over the Bay of Naples and, right in the center at the back, Mount Vesuvius. Unaware of where Flavia has disappeared to, I stand there watching the view for some minutes. Naples is built on hills and one of them rises from the sea to dominate the left middle ground, stepped with huge crumbling apartment buildings and sliced up by tapering streets and alleys that dig deeper the narrower they become. The whole city hums like a hive and cars and scooters buzz about like drones. But the main attraction is Vesuvius. What a place to build a city: in the shadow of a volcano.

It’s a while before I realize Flavia has returned and is standing behind me as I admire the view.

“What do you want to do while you are in Naples?” she asks with a level voice. “You’ll stay here, of course.”

“You’re very kind. I meant to give you some notice, but I don’t think I had the right phone number.” I show her the number in my book.

“I changed it,” she says as she sits in one of the wicker chairs and indicates for me to do the same. “I’ve been widowed six times,” she says and then falls silent. “It’s easier.”

I don’t know what to say. I think she must have intended to say something else—made a mistake with her English—although she seems so gray and lifeless herself that the statement may well have been true.

We sit on her balcony for half an hour looking out over the city and the volcano on the far side of the bay, during which time I formulate several lines with which to start a fresh conversation but each one remains unspoken. Something in her passivity frightens me. It seems at odds with the elan of the city in which she lives.

But Flavia speaks first. “With this view,” she says slowly, “it is impossible not to watch the volcano, to become obsessed by it.”

I nod.

“My father was alive when it last erupted,” she continues, “in 1944. Now Vesuvius is dormant. Do you want to see Naples?” she asks, turning toward me.

“Yes, very much.”

We leave the apartment and Flavia leads the way to a beaten-up old Fiat Uno. Her driving is a revelation: once in the car and negotiating the hairpin, doubleparked roads leading downtown Flavia is a completely different woman. Here is the lively, passionate girl I knew in London. She takes on other drivers with the determination and verve she showed in my room overlooking the hotel car park when we took it in turns to sit astride each other. She rode me then as she now drives the Fiat, throwing it into 180-degree corners and touching her foot to the floor on the straights. She’s not wearing her seat belt; I unclip mine, wind down my window and put my foot up on the plastic molding in front of me. At one point—when I draw my elbow into the car quickly to avoid a bus coming up on the other side of the road—Flavia turns her head and smiles at me just as she did eight years earlier before falling sleep.




We skid into the parking place and Flavia attacks the handbrake. Once out of the car she’s quiet again, gliding along beside me. “Where are we going?” I ask her. Beyond the city the summit of Vesuvius is draped in thick gray cloud. Out over the sea on our right a heavy wedge of darkest gray thunderheads is making its way landward trailing skirts of rain. In the space of two minutes the island of Capri is rubbed out as the storm passes over it and into the bay.

“She must want to be alone,” Flavia says and, when I look puzzled, continues: “They say that you can see a woman reclining in the outline of the island.”

But Capri is lost behind layers of gray veils now and just as Flavia finishes speaking the first drops of rain explode on my bare arms. Within seconds we are soaked by a downpour of big fat sweet-smelling summer rain. My thin shirt is plastered to my back. The rain runs off Flavia’s still body in trickles. She seems impervious to the cleansing, refreshing effect that I’m enjoying. Dripping wet with rain bouncing off my forehead, I give her a smile, but her expression doesn’t change. “Shall we walk?” I suggest, eyeing some trees in the distance that would give us some shelter. She just turns and starts walking without a word so I follow. The trees—which I realize I have seen previously from Flavia’s balcony—conceal the city aquarium, housed in the lower ground floor of a heavy stone building. I pay for two tickets and we pass in front of a succession of gloomy windows on to another world. It’s so damp down there I feel almost as if we’ve entered the element of the fishes. My shirt clings to my back, getting no drier under the dim lights. Flavia’s white blouse is stuck to her shoulders but there’s no tremor of life as far as I can see. She stares unseeing at the fish, the sinister skate, and lugubrious octopus which regard us with an expression I feel but can’t put a name to. Because I’m beginning to feel quite anxious I hurry past the shrimps and seahorses—which I see only as a blur of commas and question marks—and I’m relieved to get back into the open air.

Flavia takes me to a restaurant she knows and I eat cousins of the creatures we’ve just seen in the aquarium. Flavia orders mineral water and oysters but then hardly touches them. My teeth grind on tiny particles of grit of shell in my sauce, but I don’t say anything because it seems to be a city-wide problem. The waiter’s black patent leather shoes are matt with a fine layer of dust.

I watch Flavia as I eat and she stares out of the window at the teeming rain. When she moves, it’s with an incredible slowness that sets up a tension in me. Her stillness makes me want to protect her. She must have suffered so much, like a tree that’s been buffeted by so many storms it’s been stripped of leaves and twigs, but still stands, proud and defiant. I want to reach across and touch her cheek in the hope she might soften and smile, but such a deliberate act seems reckless. The worst thing would be if she remained indifferent to my advance.

As I continue eating, however, I’m filled with desire for her. I want to take her to bed and hold her and stroke away the years with her thin layers of clothing.

The feeling grows throughout what remains of the day. We go to a couple of basement piano bars and a club where crowds of strikingly beautiful people spill out on to the street. The atmosphere of intoxication and sexual excitement does nothing to spark Flavia into life. She simply trails her fingers through the dust which seems to coat the tables in every bar we go in.

Only in the car does she come alive as we race from one venue to another, bouncing down noisy cobbled escape routes and diving into alleys thin as crevices. The car’s headlamps startle cats and in one hidden piazza a huddle of unshaven men emerging from a fly-posted door. “This is a dangerous quarter,” she says, pointing at streets I remember from my first night. “Camorro. Our Mafia. They kill you here as soon as look at you.”

Way past midnight we end up in a park above the city on the same side as Flavia’s apartment but further round the bay. “This newspaper,” she indicates piles of discarded newsprint lining the side of the road. “People come here in their cars and put the newspaper up to cover the windows. Then they make love.”

I look at the vast drifts of newspaper as we drive slowly around the perimeter of the park. “Why?” I ask. “Because they live at home? It’s their only chance?”

She shrugs. “They do it in the cars then throw the newspaper out of the window.”

“And what a view they have,” I say, looking across the bay at the brooding shadow of Vesuvius.

Back home again she retreats inside her shell. The sudden change throws me. I want to touch her, sleep with her, but suddenly it’s as if we’re complete strangers. She sits on the balcony staring at Vesuvius and I bring her a drink. As I put it down, I place my other hand on her arm and give it a brief squeeze. She doesn’t react, so I pull one of the wicker chairs round to face hers and sit in the darkness just watching her watch the volcano. The moon paints her face with a pale wash. I can see the shape of her breasts under the white blouse and as I concentrate I can see the merest lift as she breathes. Otherwise I might have doubted she was still alive. “Do you want to go to bed?” I ask.

She just looks at me. Inside me the tension is reaching bursting point. When Flavia gets up and walks to her bedroom, I follow. She undresses in front of me. The moonlight makes her flesh look gray and very still. I undress and lie beside her. She doesn’t push me away but neither does she encourage me in any way.




When I wake in the morning, she’s gone. The pillow on her side is still indented and warm to the touch. I wish I’d done something the night before, but her terrible passivity killed my desire. A night’s sleep, however, has returned it to me. If she were here now, I’d force her to decide whether to accept or reject me, either being preferable to indifference.

I get dressed and step out on the balcony. The top of Vesuvius is covered with cloud. The air over the city is hazy. On the little table there’s a note for me from Flavia. She’s had to go out for the day and can I entertain myself? I’m to help myself to whatever I want. She suggests I visit Pompeii.




The Circumvesuviana railway trundles out of the east side of Naples and skirts the volcano, calling at St Giorgio and Ercolano, the sun beating down on the crumbling white apartment buildings. I avoid the modern town at Pompeii and head straight for the excavations. German tourists haggle over the entrance fee. I pay and go through, detaching myself from the crowd as soon as I can. They saunter off down the prescribed route armed with guide books from which their self-elected leader will read out loud, peculiarly choosing the English-language section, as they pass by the monuments of particular note. The same man—he’s wearing a red shirt which bulges over the waistband of his creamy linen trousers—carries the camcorder and will listen impassively to anyone who suggests they operate it instead. They’re a distraction from my surroundings: city preserved to a far greater degree than anything I had been expecting. I wander off into an area of recent excavations where I’m alone with the buzzing insects and basking lizards that dart away at my approach. The heat is overpowering and after a quarter of an hour threading my way through dug-out paved streets bordered with shoulder-high walls and great swathes of overflowing undergrowth I have to sit down for a rest. I look up at Vesuvius, a huge black shape jiggling from side to side behind the thickening haze.

A bee the size of a fat cockroach lumbers toward me, buzzing like a whole canful of blowflies, and I have to duck to avoid it. Even when it’s gone, I can still hear it, as if I hadn’t managed to get out of the way quick enough and somehow it got inside my head. The sun, even through the dust in the air, amplifies the noise and cooks my skull so that everything inside it rattles like loose beans. Off down a long straight street to my right I recognize the party of German tourists standing to attention as they listen to the man in the red shirt with the stomach, the camcorder and the guide book. His words are just a low hum to me amid the constant buzz in my ears. My limbs tingle as if electricity is being passed through them, then they go completely numb and the buzzing gets slower and even louder. At the far end of the long straight street the Germans have frozen in position. The man in the red shirt is in the act of raising the camcorder to his eye, a woman in a wraparound top and shorts is caught in the act of leaning backward—not ungracefully—to correct the fit of her smart training shoe. The air between them and me is thick with shiny dust, glittering in the golden sunshine. The tiny particles are dancing but the figures remain petrified.

Suddenly they’re moving but in a group rather than individually. They are shifted silently to one side like a collection of statues on an invisible moving platform. It’s as if they’re being shunted into another world while I’m left dodging the insects in this one and I want to go with them. Maybe wherever they’re going there won’t be this terrible grinding noise which is giving the inside of my skull such a relentless battering.

By the time some feeling returns to my arms and legs the German tourists have completely disappeared. I stumble over the huge baking slabs, trying to escape the punishment. Pursuing the merest hint of a decrease in the noise level I turn in through an old stone doorway and begin a desperate chase after silence: over boulders, through tangles of nettles and vines where enormous butterflies make sluggish progress through the haze. As the pain levels out and then begins to abate, I know I’m heading in the right direction. A couple more sharp turns past huge grasscovered mounds and collapsed walls where lizards the size of rats gulp at the gritty air; the noise fades right down, the pain ebbs and warm molten peaceful brassy sun flows into my bruised head. I fall to my knees with my hands covering my face, and when I take them away I’m looking directly into the empty gray eyesockets of a petrified man. His face is contorted by the pain he felt as the lava flowed over him. I’m screaming because the man looks so much like me it’s like looking in a mirror and a lizard suddenly flits out of one of the eyes and slips into the gaping mouth. The pain is back and this time it doesn’t go way until I black out.




I’m out for hours because when I come to, rubbing my forehead, the sun casts quite different shadows on the stony face. Dismayingly I have to admit he still looks like me. For several minutes I sit and watch the insects that use his cavities and passages as they would any similar rock formation.

Later I tell Flavia how closely his volcanic features resembled mine.

“It’s quite common to hallucinate after an eruption,” she says, applying a piece of sticky tape to the newspaper covering the driver’s window.

That’s all very well, I think, but I’m 2000 years too late. Or did she mean him? But I don’t want to dwell on it because the faster the newspaper goes up the sooner I can have her.

It clicked with me that I could make the most of Flavia’s carbound vivacity so that her passivity at home would not matter as much.

Through a narrow gap at the top of the windscreen I can see Vesuvius rising and falling as Flavia and I punish the old Fiat’s suspension.

In a few hours’ time I’ll be climbing Vesuvius herself. Flavia’s away somewhere—working, she said—so I’m to tackle the volcano alone, and although I could have taken a cab to the tourist car park halfway up the mountain I decided to walk all the way from Ercolano which, as Herculaneum, was itself covered by the same lava flows that buried Pompeii. The road folds over on itself as I climb. The routine is soon automatic as I maintain a regular ascent and efficient breathing. My mind is rerunning the night before in Flavia’s car. Six times her emotions reached bursting point and boiled over. In the early hours the air in the car was so thick and cloying we had to wind down the window, which meant losing part of our newsprint screen, but the park had emptied hours before.

In her apartment, where I swallowed glass after glass of fresh orange juice, Flavia was once more still and gray. I was thinking about getting her out in the car again but I knew I had to climb the volcano before I left: it had been calling me and this was my last day in the city.

If the air were not so thick with dust, the view from halfway up the mountain would be spectacular. I can just make out a darker shadow which is the center of Naples and a thin line separating the land from the sea. Only the island of Capri is clear in the distance, but its profile is still no more like a woman than the trembling slope beneath my feet. Down here there are trees either side of the road, but I can see that higher up the ground is bare. The sun still manages to break through the thickening air and once caught between the ground and the dust the heat cannot escape. I’ve taken off my shirt and tied it around my neck to soak up some of the sweat. The mountain seems to get no smaller even though I know I’m climbing. The road hugs the side and disappears some way round the back before twisting back on itself to reach the car park and refreshment stand. I have the sense, the higher I get, of the volcano as an egg, its exterior thin and brittle and cracked open at the top. I stop for breath, and lean back, and stretch. The summit and crater are covered by cloud.

Beyond the empty car park the narrow path zigzags into the clouds. I climb with the same sense of purpose that took hold of Flavia and me in the car and I sense that the prize is not so far removed from that sweet and fiery memory which even now stirs me. The earth and trees have been left behind and the slate-gray cloud thickens about me like hospital blankets. The mountain is loose cinders and disintegrated volcanic material, a uniform gray-brown, like a dying horse in a burnt field. I’m suddenly engulfed by a wave of sympathy for Flavia and the years of suffering. They have turned her into a brittle shell, but life lingers within her, a dormant energy that last night we fired up. She deserves longer-lasting happiness and yet I know she wouldn’t even flicker in some other city; Naples is her only home. Some things are rooted too deeply in the earth to shift.




Never in my life have I felt so alone as I feel now, wrapped in cloud, buffeted by sea winds, following a path to a crater. I can’t see more than ten barren yards in any direction.

When I hear the music I think I’ve died or am still asleep in Flavia’s bed and dreaming. Soft notes that gather a little power then fade quickly as the wind blows new ones slightly up or down the scale. I’ve already called Flavia’s name three times before I realize I’m doing it. The name is taken from my lips and wrapped in this soiled cotton wool that surrounds me. Her name rolls on with the cloud over the top of the mountains where the crater must be. It mustn’t fall in.

The source of the music comes into view—an abandoned shack supported by an exoskeleton of tubular steel shafts. The wind plays them like panpipes. A sign still attached to the side of the shack advertises the sale of tickets to the crater. I begin to laugh at the absurdity of such an idea, and wade on past the chiming tubes and up toward the edge. I know it’s up there somewhere although I can’t see it and I stumble blindly onward, scuffing my shoes in coarse, loose material. Then suddenly the ground disappears beneath my feet and I’m clawing at space for a handhold. Somehow I manage to fall back rather than forward and I crouch in the harsh volcanic rubble peering over the edge of the crater. Below me the cloud twists in draughts of warm air. I’m muttering Flavia’s name to myself and thinking I should never have gone to look for her. Then I’m thinking maybe I never did go, but stayed in the insect-ridden hotel instead.

As I watch the updrafts of ash and dust, I see a recognizable group of shapes take vague form in the clouds. The German tourists—he with the red shirt, the camcorder, the stomach, she of the shorts and smart training shoes, still frozen as an exhibit of statuary—descend through the rising dust as if on a platform. The thicker swirls beneath me envelop them.

They pass into the throat of the giant and are followed by a facsimile of Flavia, falling like a slow bomb. A cast of myself—whether from Pompeii or the hotel, I don’t know—is next, slipping in and out of focus behind curtains of clogging ash.

The last thing I remember is the buffeting and turbulence the 737 went through as it passed over Vesuvius on its descent into Naples, and suddenly the whole crazy city with its strange visions and coating of fine dust—from a waiter’s shoes to the air rattling in lungs—makes perfect sense.




UNDER THE CRUST

by Terry Lamsley







Terry Lamsley was born near London on January 28, 1941, and he presently lives in the High Peak of Derbyshire with his wife and family. Many of his stories are set in and around his home town, Buxton, including those in Under the Crust, his first collection of supernatural tales—the title story from which appears here. Lamsley seems to be trying to do to Buxton what Ramsey Campbell has done to Liverpool. I imagine that the authorities will make it look like an accident.

Writing about himself, Lamsley informs us: “Terry has had a vast number of jobs, and sometimes no job at all. In 1989, finding himself at a loose end, he foolishly took up social work. He’s still doing it. He has been writing, with mixed success, as long as he can remember (his memory is not so good). He first seriously attempted the supernatural genre about three years ago, and a number of his stories are due to appear in print in the near future. He is now working on his next regional collection, High Peaks of Fear, and hopes to start a novel when it is complete. His hobbies are playing pool, emptying bottles, and hanging on by the skin of his teeth.”

And now we begin our final descent into the strange and disturbing.





Maurice began to feel ill as he came off the Chapel-en-le-Frith bypass and drove up the A6 to Dove Holes. Suddenly, his palms were damp, and his hands slithered on the steering wheel. He was trying to grip too hard, to compensate for a feeling he had that if he didn’t do so, his hands would start to tremble. Also, he was having trouble with his vision. The edges of things were hazy, and patches of blue sky that showed through the gaps in the high, blousy clouds, looked far too bright, like neon light shining off painted metal. He wanted to stop, but was caught in a line of lorries, and there was nowhere to pull off the road that he could remember. He wiped his hands on his shirt. They became sticky again at once. There was a droning sound somewhere. He wasn’t sure if it was coming from the car engine or inside his skull.

He blinked and shook his head in consternation. He had been feeling uneasy all day, all week even, and there was plenty in his life to feel uneasy about, but he had thought he was fairly fit. Now, it seemed, his body was going to let him down, and play host to some sickness, on top of everything else. He slammed the steering wheel with the heel of his hand in disgust, wound down the side window a couple of inches, and leaned forward tensely against his seat-belt.

As he drove through the tight, dusty village of Dove Holes, he started to experience a sensation of more general disorientation. He saw a narrow turning forking to his left and, on impulse, took it much too fast. The unfamiliar road curved and dipped between two low stone walls and, hardly slowing at all, he rocketed along it for a few hundred yards, feeling almost helpless, as though the car had taken possession of him. He made an effort of concentration, to gain control of the vehicle, but a square, dark shape sprang up to the right of him, as though it had pounced out of the earth, and plunged toward him. He swung the car to the left to avoid whatever it was; it seemed to be a huge black, windowless van; and rode wildly up and along a low, steep, grassy bank. He sensed, rather than saw, the other driver staring down at him. The car scraped against a wall and he had a vague impression of stones tumbling away into a field beyond. The car pulled up sharp at last, its front end pointing to the sky.

Maurice glanced back to see what had happened to the other vehicle, but it had vanished. Could anything that size, traveling that fast, not have gone off the road?

Then he recalled that the van, or whatever it was, had made no attempt to avoid him. It had taken no evasive action in the seconds it had been visible, as though the driver had not even seen him! Thoughts of insurance bleeped on and off in his mind as he freed his seatbelt buckle, opened the door, and stumbled out onto the road.

There was a strong, gusting wind blowing. He gulped air desperately through his half-open mouth, feeling its cold shock on his lungs, and cursed the world in general.

Food poisoning! he thought. The meal earlier on, at the reception. Something, the chicken? the pork pies? had tasted strange, but he had eaten it anyway, in his hunger. The contents of his stomach flipped over painfully, causing him to double up over the car bonnet.

He forced himself upright and went to inspect the damage. One of the fronts lights was smashed, the left wing dented, and there were scratches, some deep, along that side. He’d lost a lot of paint. Still, it could have been worse. The wall he had hit some dozens of yards back must have been ready to collapse, or the car would have been in a very bad way.

He sat down on the grass bank and waited for his heart to stop racing. His head felt clearer, but things still didn’t look quite right; the world was still hazy and slightly out of kilter.

Next to him the car clicked and sighed as the engine cooled. After a while he glanced underneath to check that nothing was leaking, got back inside, and carefully backed onto the tarmac. He continued along the little back road at about ten miles an hour until a further spasm in his stomach made him shut his eyes in agony, and he had to stop again.

He got out, slammed the door behind him, and looked around.

He was near the top of a hill. Open countryside lay spread around him on all sides. Ahead of him a row of scraggy, dark-leafed trees stretched to the right towards acres of torn-up fields and pyramids of raw earth; a scene of tortured ugliness. In front of them a deeply scarred path of churned mud led to a set of old diggings, called the Victory Quarry, that had partly been turned into a tip by the Borough Council. A multitude of large skips, painted drab brown, sprawled away at all angles beyond the end of the line of trees; a porta-cabin guarded the entrance at the other side. A skimpy gate of wire grill on an iron frame gaped wide to give access to dust carts and private vehicles arriving from time to time with cargoes of every kind of rubbish.

He wandered down the path, thinking he would take advantage of the shelter of the trees to relieve his bladder.

It was not easy going. The mud was scored with the tire marks of huge machines, that had to be stepped in and out of with care. The rain of the previous weeks had sunk deep, turning the mangled soil oleaginous, but the mix of sunshine and strong wind of the last three days had formed a crust overall that looked solid, but gave way under his feet, precipitating him awkwardly into the mire below. His light town shoes became heavily caked with clumps of dirt, like thick black paste, and his progress was marked by an uneven sequence of gross squelching sounds that complemented the sensations he was experiencing in his belly.

He grabbed at a half-broken branch and pulled himself along it into a space between two trees. He noticed that their trunks on the pathward side had been hacked and wounded by passing vehicles. Great scabs of bark were missing, revealing the plants’ fibrous flesh. Crosses, in faded orange paint, had been daubed on the trees, presumably to indicate that they were to be preserved. Stumps of others, less fortunate, remained here and there, like the broken pillars on tombs.

Immediately at the rear of the trees, shrubs and flowers grew in the shaded dimness. He stepped a little way in among them, relieved himself, and stooped to wipe the mud from his shoes with a clump of grass.

Above him, something moved heavily among the branches. For moments there was silence, then the bird, or whatever it was, shifted clumsily again. It made a sudden, rattling, cackling sound that made him start. ‘Like the noise a toy machine gun would make if it laughed!’ he thought, and wondered at his own wild simile. But it was reasonably accurate! There was something taunting and mechanical in the creature’s call that unnerved him in his weakened, jittery state. He looked up in the direction of the sound, but the sun was shining directly through the leaves above him, punching blinding slivers of light through an otherwise featureless silhouette. It was impossible to distinguish anything in particular.

There was movement above again. A shower of twigs descended around him, and something else fell, that hit the ground by his feet. After the briefest hesitation, when he felt a stab of regret that he had ever stepped in among the trees, he bent down and picked it up. It was a purple-brown, egg-shaped object, a little more than three inches long. Surprisingly heavy, and icy cold, it looked more like some kind of fruit, but not, he thought, edible! There was something distinctly unappetising about it. It looked old; dry; preserved.

After rolling it on his palm, Maurice went back onto the path again to get a better look at it.

Both ends were quite smooth, with no indication that they had ever been joined to any plant.

Not a seed, he thought. And not an egg; far too heavy and too hard. Anyway, an egg would have smashed on its fall from the tree. He pressed harder and harder, and it seemed to give a bit. He closed both hands over it, to obtain more pressure, and gripped them together.

The thing burst and his hands slammed shut on what was left.

He felt something moving in his two-handed fist. He opened his hands and saw what seemed to be a myriad of tiny, dark creatures running out onto his fingers and up his wrists. He held his hands up to his eyes. He was not sure if what he could see was a multitude of tiny entities moving together, as though with one mind, or a single creature made up of almost microscopic sections. Both his hands were covered, as though by thin gloves. He became aware of a slightly painful sensation in the affected areas, and brushed his hands together. After a few moments of vigorous washing motions the “gloves,” and the pain, began to subside. Whatever had come out of the egg turned to dust that blew away in the wind as it fell.

A mottled, bruiselike stain remained to mark where the contents of the object had spread. He tried rubbing his hands in the grass, but without effect. The stain seemed indelible.

His skin itched. His hands and wrists looked horrible, as though his skin was diseased. Rubbing them fretfully against each other, he peered up into the trees again.

He saw a branch sway down, as though something was walking along it.

He picked a large stone out of the mud and threw it at where he judged the source of the movement to be.

There was a commotion among the leaves, and the harsh, cackling sound recommenced with a vengeance. Nearby, all along the line of trees, other, presumably similar creatures, took up the call. Their combined din became a terrible cacophony. Large sections of all the trees began to heave agitatedly. In his almost-hysterical state of confusion Maurice thought he could see thin arms waving and gesticulating among the branches.

He turned and ran, but in the wrong direction, away from his car. He realized his mistake almost at once, but dared not stop.

Once, he glanced to the left. Behind the trees, in among the shrubs and bushes, spidery shapes seemed to be scuttling up out from between the roots buried there. He got the impression that they were moving along parallel to him. Their movements were slow, but so were his, hampered as he was by the deep tire tracks and the clinging mud.

He reached the porta-cabin. A shuttered window was open on the side. He ran to the far end, where he could see the edge of the lowest of a set of wooden steps protruding. The door above the steps was open, held back against the wind with a twist of wire. He collapsed on his knees on the steps and looked into the cabin. A young skinhead with a tattooed scalp, in overalls and a black donkey-jacket, sat at an improvised desk, stirring the contents of a mug with one hand and clutching a coverless paperback in the other. The young man regarded him inquisitively over the book, which he lowered a couple of inches.

Maurice got awkwardly up off the steps, turned, and looked back into the trees. He realized the scolding sounds had stopped. The trees swayed gently, normally, in the wind. As far as he could see, nothing moved among them that should not. The mud lane leading to the road was empty.

“What have you got?” a voice asked from inside the cabin. It was a tired, old man’s voice.

He turned and looked at the skinhead, who shrugged, and gestured back over his shoulder.

Half way into the cabin, on a pile of filthy mattresses, lay an elderly, whiskery man, also in overalls. He was on his side, with his head propped in his hand.

“Is it household? Garden? That sort of thing?” the old man demanded.

“I’m sorry…?” said Maurice, uncomprehendingly.

“Yer rubbish,” said the young man irritably. “What is it?” He sneered at the muddy, frightened man in front of him, who could only press his hand against his brow and shake his head.

“Bloody Hell!” the skinhead said, “what we got here?” and held the tattered book up to his face in a contemptuous, dismissive gesture.

The old man turned and sat up. “You got any rubbish to deposit at this tip, or haven’t you?” he asked.

“Oh, I see what you mean! No, I haven’t.”

“Then why are you here? What can we do for you? This is Council land, you know. Private.”

“Well, to tell the truth, my car had a bump on the road back there. Nothing serious. I’m a bit shaken. Thought I’d get some fresh air to clear my head. Is that okay?”

“No harm in that,” the old man conceded. “As long as you don’t hang about. Trouble is, we get people in scavenging. Can’t have that, for health reasons. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do,” said Maurice vaguely. “I won’t be long.”

He stumbled as he walked away towards the tip.

Behind him, the skinhead said, “Pissed!”

“As a rat,” the old man agreed.




Maurice didn’t want to go back past the trees. He didn’t feel ready for that. Perhaps he could find another way out onto the road? He looked around. The whole area was enclosed by wire fences, as far as he could see, and he was in no mood to climb over them. He was barely able to walk, to keep upright, as it was.

He wandered into a mangled landscape of many levels. The earth rose and fell away in strange, half-related planes, like a cubist composition. Rough roads of cinders swooped up to sudden edges that led nowhere, or down and around to pools of oily, glinting rainwater and randomly dumped heaps of soil or refuse. It seemed that whole buildings had been dropped from the sky. Piles of bricks, toys, carpets, plaster, furniture, in violent juxtaposition, were dotted everywhere, and mounds the size of small hills, the remnants of unimaginable ruins, formed miniature alpine chains down into the old, unused quarries. All was covered by a dust-crested crust of varying thickness that split under him as he walked. His footsteps behind him oozed fleshy mud.

Paper and plastic scraps drifted endlessly across the site in the wind. Occasionally, larger segments of lightweight litter broke loose from the clotted mass and carved into the air, scaring up flocks of shrieking gulls and starlings. Smoke, or steam, puffed up mysteriously from various points, as though a huge engine was building up pressure deep under the earth. A machine made a pumping, clunking sound somewhere out of sight, and the strident alarm of a reversing earth-moving vehicle called out every few minutes from some hidden excavation.

He almost tumbled into a deep hole, about two feet wide. It reached diagonally down, like a giant rabbit’s burrow, into the compacted garbage. At first he thought that someone had been tunneling, for some unimaginable reason, but noticed that loose matter from underground had been pushed up around the lip of the hole, as though it had been dug out from under. He found other similar holes. He knelt beside one, and peered down into it. Buried wires, wooden laths, and plastic pipes had been torn apart by some powerful, or desperate digging. He couldn’t even guess at why the holes were there.

He wandered aimlessly amid the desolation, stumbling like a blind man searching for his lost stick, until he came to the edge of one of the so far unused quarries. Down inside it there was a small lake of pure, shining water reflecting the scudding clouds and the vivid blue of the sky. The sides of the quarry were steep, bare cliffs, or slopes of tumbled stone covered with blossoming shrubs and rich grass. To Maurice, it glowed and beckoned like the Promised Land. He looked for a way down into this pleasant place, but saw that he would have to walk a long way round to gain access. Too tired and depressed to make the effort, he sat down on a chunk of creamy marble, part of an old fireplace, to review his situation.

He still felt wretched. His body ached. Obviously, he needed to get to a doctor. He hoped that, when he got back to his car, he would be able to drive. It was only three miles into Buxton, but somehow, that sounded like a long way. He dreaded the thought of the journey.

He sat for a while, still as a stone, trying to read his own mind, to make sense of his recent experiences.

He seemed to be gazing out from some painful place deep within his skull.

The landscape in front of him, beyond the quarry, had a hectic look. Cars passing on the A6 chased each other viciously, the sound of their passage an angry, waspish buzz. Sheep, grazing in the long sweep of fields that climbed up the side of Combs Moss to the rough crest of crags called Black Edge and Hob Tor, looked like fat, lazy maggots browsing on a green corpse. The hurtling clouds cast swooping shadows, like dark searchlights, across the pastures. He felt that he had slipped into another reality, similar to, but alarmingly unlike, the one he had previously inhabited.

Disgusted with the increasingly morbid turns his mind was taking, he got to his feet and looked back the way he had come. In spite of the indications of activity suggested by the various, continuous mechanical noises, he had seen nobody since he had left the two men in the porta-cabin. Now his eye caught the movement of five long-shadowed shapes moving slowly toward him across an area strewn with household waste. The figures stooped from time to time to lift objects from the ground, and stood still, heads down, as though inspecting their finds. Then, they would either drop whatever they had discovered, or walk over to one of their number who was awkwardly hauling a little cart of some kind, and carefully place their discoveries inside it. Their movements were even-paced, and languid to the point of listlessness.

With the low sun behind them, it was impossible to make out details of their features. He thought that two of them, including the smallest, who was tugging the cart in some sort of harness, were female. He got the impression they were dressed rather quaintly. As they got nearer, he could hear their voices, quiet and even-toned, like people at prayer. Presumably, they were discussing the treasures they were finding. They gave no indication that they were aware Maurice was there until the tip of the hugely extended shadow of the most forward of them touched his feet. Then, that figure stopped, raised his right hand to his shoulder, and the others behind him ceased all movement, as though they had become unplugged from their energy source. The man at the front raised his hand even higher, with his index finger close to his brow, and tapped a battered cap lodged above his ear, in an antiquated gesture of respect.

Maurice, embarrassed and irritated by the subservient gesture, which he automatically assumed was one of mock humility, found himself lost for a suitable response. He said, “Hello there!” in the tone he would use to greet one of his colleagues, met by chance on the streets of Manchester.

“I wish you a good day,” said the man who had touched his cap, then, after the slightest pause, he added, “Sir.” His voice was strangely accented, but there was no note of mockery in his unassuming tone.

Maurice looked hard at him, trying to read his expression, but the man’s face was in shadow, and he was too far away. There was a similarity in the posture of the five people, and Maurice was sure that they were a family. They all had a similar shape and stance. The woman pulled the cart was older than the other female, and he guessed she was the wife of the man who had addressed him, who had the air of a paterfamilias. The other three appeared to be in their late teens.

Their stillness (they remained static as waxworks) and their dumb silence as he stared at them, quickly got on Maurice’s frazzled nerves.

They’re wondering what I’m doing here, he thought. I must appear very odd to them. It’s obvious why they’re here; they’re scavenging, but what the hell can they hope to find that’s worth taking away? Can people be so desperate, that they have to search in this foul place for the battered, useless things that others have thrown away?

And; yes, he thought, they do look that abject.

Tired of standing pointlessly in silence, Maurice decided to return to his car. He set off in a line wide of the right of the group who, to his surprise, began themselves to move. They went to their cart and began sorting through its contents.

“Sir,” called the man. “Would you be at all interested in anything we’ve got here? Come and see. We’ve a few choice articles.” He held some object up. “Look at this. This is for you, sir, don’t you think? This is something you should have.”

Maurice glanced across, and shook his head. He couldn’t make out what the man had in his hand, and, for some reason, he was glad of that. “I have to go,” he called, and quickened his stride.

“Give us a chance, sir,” the man pleaded, in his odd accent. “Just look what we’ve got here. You’ll curse yourself, if you don’t.”

“That he will,” called a female voice, in a kind of soft wailing drawl. “You’ll curse yourself later, sir.”

Maurice hurried on, almost at a run. They continued to call after him, but he couldn’t hear what they said. He looked back a couple of times. They seemed to be following him, but he was well ahead of them, and the distance was welcoming.

The porta-cabin was shut when he reached it. He looked at his watch. It was almost seven, hours later than he thought! Where had the time gone?

He didn’t look at the line of trees as he passed, but something in them called out its chattering, scolding cry.

He drove home along the empty back lanes slowly and furtively, glancing in his rear view mirror every few moments.




Maurice’s wife was a hypochondriac. In the three years of their marriage she had built up an impressive collection of pills and potions for all her ills, real and imagined. They filled two drawers of a medium-sized chest in the bathroom. She kept alphabetical lists of them, stating what each one was good for.

Next morning, after a troubled night, Maurice browsed through the lists, selected four bottles, and gulped down a possibly dangerous mix of medication. He checked his post (more confirmation from the bank of what he already knew; he was on the brink of bankruptcy) then went to see if he had been Faxed any better news. He found more of the same.

He sat for a while in the cold gray computer-dominated room he used as an office, listening to a CD of natural and electronic sounds his wife had bought him to help him relax after he had told her they were going broke. She had left him three weeks later.

The pills started to work, and he fell into a deep sleep. The door bell rang twice before he was even half awake.

He got to his feet too quickly. The room wobbled under him. His eyes wouldn’t focus, and his mouth tasted and felt like the inside of a carpet sweeper. The bell rang again. Whoever it was, was in a bloody hurry! He glanced at himself in a mirror as he passed along the hall, and hated what he saw.

The front door was a fancy affair with beaded glass panels, and lots of expensive brass fittings. He had seen one like it on a backdrop representing the Ugly Sisters’ house in a pantomime version of “Cinderella” at the Buxton Opera House. It represented the taste of the house’s previous occupant. What he liked about it was that you could get a good idea who was on your front step through the glass without being seen and, if expedient, could take evasive action. He was finding he had to do that more often recently.

This time however, his caller was standing well back, and was just a thin blur.

As soon as he opened the door a man stepped off the drive and held a card up in Maurice’s face. The card was a dirty, eggy yellow and bore a tiny photograph of someone who may have been the person holding it. It was creased in a hundred places, as though its owner had used it to practise Origami. Maurice didn’t even try to read what was printed on it.

“I’ve been unemployed,” the man on the step said, “and I’m trying to do myself a bit of good. Trying to help myself.” He had a pallid, pinched boy’s face, with small features and a gap between his eyes so wide it seemed to be an effort for him to see straight. His head kept drifting evasively round from side to side. He looked in need of a lot of square meals. He could have been any age between fifteen and fifty. He poked the card down into his shirt pocket and started to open a cheap, bulging plastic sports bag.

“No thanks,” said Maurice, “I never buy anything at the door.” He began to push the door shut.

“You never do?” echoed the man in a bewildered tone. “But I’m trying to keep myself, I’m not just sitting back. It’s to make a living.”

Maurice was about to say something like, “That’s highly commendable, but no thank you,” when he realized that the man had an unusual accent; one that he had heard before; yesterday, in fact! The pills had blurred his mind, or he would have noticed it at once. He looked keenly at the man and, yes! he could have been one of the people he had seen scavenging at the tip. He couldn’t be sure, but he had the stance, the pleading, praying voice. He had opened the zip along the top of the bag and was pulling things out—a child’s shoe, a partly melted and twisted comb, a two foot length of hose-pipe, a battered, lidless coffee jug, a tangle of used bandage…

“Is any of this any use to you?” the man asked, like a child or a simpleton, totally unaware of the inappropriateness of his words and actions. He spread the bandage out along his arm, as though it were particularly worthy of attention.

Maurice looked at the dirty, bloodstained strip of muslin, and hoped that he was asleep and dreaming. He placed his hand over the sports bag to stop the emergence of more items. “You couldn’t have followed me here,” he said. “No one did; I watched the road. How did you find me?”

“Were you lost?” the man asked, puzzled. He didn’t seem to be joking.

The pointless, silly question enraged Maurice. He growled something like, “Get out!” and was about to slam the door shut with his foot when the man slid his thin fingers round inside the door frame.

Maurice strode onto the step. He grabbed the intruder’s wrist, and hauled him to the front gate. The man’s loose skin slid back alarmingly along his almost fleshless bones. He put up no resistance. He was surprisingly lightweight. He made sad, bleating sounds. He was searching automatically in his bag with his free hand. As Maurice forced the man out onto the pavement, he was aware that something was pushed into his jacket pocket. He gave the man a final shove on the back, to get him on his way, and marched back into his house.

He waited a few moments, then glanced out of a window to check that his visitor had gone.

The creature was on his knees, carving something on the wooden gate post with a pen-knife.

Maurice’s frayed patience stretched and snapped. He ran out and kicked the man on the upper arm. He felt and heard something break inside the shirt sleeve. Turning an anguished face toward him, looking totally lost and confused, the man reached up and seemed to be trying to protect his whole body with a single, upraised, skinny hand. Feeling furiously disgusted with himself and the pathetic being in front of him, Maurice kicked out again. The heel of his shoe hit the man in the breast bone, and his chest gave way! Maurice felt his foot sink in, and he was reminded of the sun-dried crust he had broached with every step he had taken at the tip.

Evidently, unsurprisingly, the man had had enough. He lurched away, clutching his bag in front of him with both arms. He sounded as though he were choking. He didn’t look back.

Maurice bent down to see what he had been carving on the post. Underneath a deeply scored, slightly wavy line was a matchstick figure with over-long legs, rudimentary arms, and a tiny head, in a breaststroke posture. He seemed to be swimming downward.

Some sort of Hex, thought Maurice, contemptuously. A tinker’s curse! He spat on the crude drawing, and went indoors.

He was horrified at what he had just done. He was still experiencing the sensation of the second kick; of feeling the man’s chest caving in under his foot.

He went into his office, sat in the armchair he kept there for visiting business associates, and pulled out from his pocket the little parcel that had been pushed into it. He unknotted some thin string tied around it and removed a layer of charred newspaper. Underneath was a grubby pale-pink plastic box such as a child might keep cheap jewelry in. He pressed it open with his thumbs. Inside, in a bed of more crumbled half-burned paper, was a purple-brown egg like the one he had burst. He placed it carefully on his desk. He spread his hands out in front of him and studied them. The blotchy stains had almost gone, but the skin still looked chapped and raw.

After a while, he got up and turned on all the machines in his high-tech office. He had the latest of everything a computer could do to assist him with his work. He was continuously updating his equipment. To stay ahead in his field, he had invested a fortune, and what he produced was acknowledged to be the most advanced work of its kind in the country.

Even so, he had gone bust; he was ruined!

When everything was on and running, the room was full of a soft humming sound that sometimes soothed him. But not this time! He went around the house in search of strong drink.

Before he had located a bottle, phone bells rang all over the house. He went to the nearest receiver, a black, Bakelite antique, hesitated for seconds, obscurely reluctant to answer at all, then snatched it up.

It was Neville Gale, one of the partners in his firm calling, ostensibly, to commiserate with Maurice on the departure of his wife. He soon got round to the real subject on his mind, however; the failure of their business. Maurice was aware that Gale blamed him for much that had gone wrong, and could tell by his tone that the man wanted to scream and swear down the phone at him like a drunken football fan. But he wouldn’t ever do that. Old Nev was far too civilized.

Maurice listened to Gale’s reasonable despair for some time, then shouted, “It’s too late, Nev; I’m sunk, and you’re sinking. We’re all going under, and there’s not a thing we can do to stop it. We’re in very deep shit, so get used to the idea, and get off my back!”

He slammed the phone down.

Then, feeling the need to make one more gesture of finality, he picked the instrument up and hurled it at the wall.




Maurice went into his back garden. He poured a heap of charcoal into the middle of the barbecue, placed the egg-like thing on top, and pressed it down a little so it couldn’t roll off. He sprayed the pyre with “Betterburn” lighting fluid from a dispenser, and set a match to the lot. He stood well back, half expecting a small explosion, or even a big one. The egg burned slowly, and made a lot of smoke. It hissed and spluttered like breakfast in a pan, emitting tiny crimson flames. When it had almost gone, he poked the ashes and returned to the house for an hour. When he came back, there was no trace of the egg.

He swallowed another mouthful of medicaments, got in his battered car, and drove to Dove Holes the way he had come back last time, along the side lanes.

As he approached the entry to the tip, he saw a huge black van—the one that had forced him off the road, he was sure—gliding out through the gates. It turned into the road and moved away from him very fast. Thinking about his insurance again, like a drowning man clutching at the proverbial straw, he pushed down the accelerator. He was determined to overtake and stop the van.

He made some progress; got a bit closer.

The van was as large as any he had ever seen. It was quite smooth, with no visible panel joins, and was completely unmarked. He couldn’t even see a number plate. It was a miracle the driver was able to steer anything that size round the sharp bends in the narrow lane. He had trouble keeping his own vehicle on the road, and had to slow down. He was astonished to see the van draw away from him until it was almost out of sight. In seconds he was at a crossroads on the A6 in the center of Dove Holes, and there was no sign of the van in any direction. He gave the steering wheel a characteristic, ineffectual thump with the heel of his hand, and swore. Then he turned round and drove back to the tip.

He sensed he was being watched as he walked past the line of trees, but did not go to investigate what might be observing him. Half-formed shapes moved stealthily among the shrubs behind the trees, that he tried not to see.

He made his way through the mud to the porta-cabin. Inside, the old man was alone, spread out on his multimattress bed. He jumped when Maurice banged on the open door, and sat up.

“What you got?” he said automatically, like a talking machine. Then he recognized Maurice, and got to his feet. A deeply uneasy expression appeared on his face, that he tried to conceal by turning away.

Maurice, not quite sure what he was doing there, felt slightly foolish. At last he said, “I wonder if you can help me? I want some information about the scavengers on the tip. I met some people out there, and one of them must have followed me home. At least, I think he was one of them. Turned up on my door step and started pestering me.”

“That’s nothing to do with me,” the man said sullenly.

“I realize that,” Maurice said, “but I thought you might know who they are. They don’t seem like locals, the ones I met. They spoke differently, they act differently; do you know what I mean?”

“Perhaps,” the man said. “I don’t talk to them. I keep away. I’d do the same, if I were you. Let them get on with it.”

“Get on with what?”

The man shrugged. He filled an electric kettle from a plastic bottle and plugged it in a socket close to the floor. Slowly, and somewhat clumsily, he went through the motions of setting up a brew of tea. Maurice noticed he only washed out one mug. “Where’s your friend?” he asked, “the lad who was with you before?”

“Jed? He went out to scare them off, the scavengers. Hours ago.” The old man squinted up at Maurice from under his creased, dirt-smeared brows. “He’s not come back. I think he’s jacked in the job. He said he was pissed off working here. The place gave him the creeps; got on his nerves. It gets on mine, too, but I can’t just bugger off. He can get another job, at his age, if he’s lucky, but I can’t.” He spooned sugar angrily into his mug, spilling a trail of white crystals along the newspaper that served as a cloth on the ancient ironing board that was his table. “I’m stuck here,” he concluded.

Lost for words, Maurice gazed around the interior of the cabin. It was stacked with rescued furniture and other junk. An artificial Christmas tree, its branches bent and draped with fragments of faded tinsel, lay on the ground at his feet. Rolls of worn carpet were lined up along one wall, and bursting suitcases and boxes, packed with god-knows-what rubbish, were piled everywhere. An old tin bath was full of bones! Maurice was startled to see, among them, two skulls. He must have gasped, because the old man looked up from pouring his tea.

“Christ!” Maurice said, stepping towards the tub. “Where did they come from?”

A concatenation of expressions passed over the man’s face; annoyance, anxiety, confusion, fear, and others indefinable. He lifted his mug in both hands and sipped his drink. “They were dug up,” he said, reluctantly at last. “Out there.” He pointed beyond the line of trees opposite the cabin.

“But they’re human remains, surely?” said Maurice.

“Some of them are,” the man admitted, “and some of them aren’t.”

Maurice squatted down next to the tub. “I see what you mean,” he said. Many of the bones were undoubtedly human, but others were far too long and thin, like the leg bones of an ostrich, or some huge bird. He picked one up. It was extraordinarily light, as though it was made of paper.

“Never mind them,” the old man said irritably, and threw a blanket over the bath tub. “That’s all going to be taken care of. They’re all going back.”

“But have you notified the relevant authorities?” Maurice said, awkwardly aware of the foolish pomposity of the phrase. “I mean, people may have been murdered and their bodies concealed there.”

“Look,” the man said sharply. “Mind your own business, if you know what’s good for you! Keep your nose out. I know what I’m doing. No one’s been murdered; at least, not recently.”

“Then you know whose bones they are?”

“I’ve been told.”

“I still think you should tell the police.”

“And have the bloody place closed down? And lose my job? That’s what would happen! That’s a graveyard out there, and a very old one. The place would be crawling with bloody priests and what-you-call-its?… archy…?”

“Archaeologists?”

“Those are the buggers. They’d love this place, if they got to know about it, but they’re not going to. When the lads started digging up those bones with the J.C.B., Mr. Mycock, our gaffer, said to keep it quiet, if we wanted to stay in work, and we have done. There’s only a few of us knows about it, and it’s going to stay that way. You start blabbing about it, and it’s your fault if we lose our jobs! You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“No,” said Maurice, thinking about the imminent loss of his own livelihood, “perhaps not.”

“Never mind perhaps,” the man growled.

“At least you can tell me about it,” Maurice added, “if I promise to keep the information to myself.”

“I don’t know much,” the man admitted, “just what old Mr. Snape told me. He knows all the history of this area. Got loads of books about it. Goes about with a metal detector all the time. He’s found a lot of stuff. There was a thing about him in the paper not long ago. He found the remains of a village or something, up on Combs Moss. Well, I told him about it, because he’s done me favors, bought bits from me that have turned up at the tip, and given me a good price. He’ll keep his mouth shut, I know.”

The old man scratched his chin anxiously, as though he wasn’t quite as confident as he sounded, or perhaps he had lice in his stubble of beard.

“So whose graveyard is it?” Maurice asked, wanting to get to the nub of the matter.

“Some miners. Hundreds of years ago. It’s a local legend, according to Mr. Snape. He’s read about it in one of his old books. They were digging, and they found something they weren’t looking for, deep underground, not far from where we are now. Some sort of cave, I suppose it was, though they thought they’d dug their way down into hell. They had a name for it; they called it ‘The Devil’s Spawning Ground.’ They found things there, and saw things that scared the daylights out of them, but I’m not sure what. They brought out some objects that looked like eggs and, would you believe it? they started eating them. It was a bad year, the crops must have failed, Mr. Snape thinks, so they were all starving. They’d eat anything, in those days, of course.”

“They were poisoned?” Maurice ventured, thinking he could foresee the end of the tale.

“Not exactly. It wasn’t like that. Something dreadful did seem to happen to some of them at once; though old Snape says he thinks that part of the story was probably just invention. Something to do with the ‘folk imagination.’ He says when one strange thing happens, people add an extra half dozen other things in the telling to spice it up. And you can’t believe tales of men and women turning into something else, can you?; into tall, thin, spidery things, overnight?”

Maurice shook his head, but peered uneasily out towards the line of trees.

The old man slung the dregs of his tea out the door and wiped his shirt front round the rim of his mug. “As for the others,” he continued, “for a while, nothing happened to them. Then they started changing, behaving different. They developed nasty habits, and people roundabout didn’t like them.”

“What sort of habits?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Snape didn’t want to go into that side of things. He’s like that, he doesn’t talk about anything unpleasant. He just said that people started avoiding them, and for good reasons.”

“They became isolated.”

“That’s it. Formed their own little community. That got a name, too. They called it Devil’s Hole. Old Snape thinks, over the years, it got shortened to Dev’s Hole, then the locals forgot the original name, and it got twisted to Dove Holes, but I don’t know about that. Anyway, things went on without too much trouble, until some of the miner’s wives started having babies. The kids weren’t right at all, and the women tried to hide them. There was something unpleasant about them.”

“You don’t know what?”

The old man shook his head. “Snape wouldn’t say. But they were bad enough to force the miners and their families up onto Combs Moss, out of the way, where they couldn’t be seen. They built a little village of sorts, the one Mr. Snape found the remains of.” The old man took a step towards the door and pointed a grubby hand at the lines of rock that marked Black Edge and Hob Tor. “Just there, I think.”

“It seems they made a deal with the other villages hereabouts to keep out of their way, in exchange for food and other things they needed to survive. They used to send a few people down from the Moss with hand carts, to collect stuff. That went on for years, then those children I mentioned started to get loose, started roaming about the countryside. It seems they looked very strange. People didn’t like the look of them at all. And bad things happened.”

Once again, Maurice would have liked more details, but the old man was plainly unable to provide them, so he didn’t interrupt. The story, odd, even outlandish as it was, had the ring of truth, and was exacerbating a feeling of unease that had dominated Maurice’s mind and body since just before the accident, prior to his visit to the tip. He was still feeling wretchedly ill, and the medicine wasn’t working.

“Things got so bad,” the old man continued, “that one day, people for miles around got together, went up onto Combs Moss, and slaughtered everyone there, kids and all. They brought the bodies down and buried them in a pit they dug here, near the cave they’d found. They sealed off the cave and filled in the diggings that led to it.”

“And those were the people whose remains you’ve found?”

“So Mr. Snape says. If anyone knows about these things, it’s him. It seems right, as though there may be some truth in it, when you looked at some of those bones.”

Maurice glanced down at the blanketed bath tub, and imagined the peculiar things hidden there. “You should put them back,” he said. “I’ll help you. They should be reburied, right now, at once.” Suddenly, he was convinced that such action was urgent and necessary.

At first, perhaps from simple laziness, the old caretaker was reluctant to cooperate. He shook his head and made a woofing noise, as though he was being intolerably harassed. “Never mind that now—” he said, but Maurice decided to act.

He pushed his way deeper into the cabin and lifted the tub of bones up to his chest. He was a big man; the sort few people would chose to argue with, and the old man decided not to even try.

“Come with me,” Maurice ordered. “There’s a spade over there. Bring it with you. And show me where they found these bones.”

The old man trudged ahead, slithering from time to time, as did Maurice, on the mud under the dried earth crust. He stopped at a spot quite undistinguished by any obvious mark, apparently at random, and pointed down at the ground. “Here,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Maurice asked, suspiciously.

The old man nodded emphatically, and repeated, “Here, or hereabouts.”

Maurice took the spade and began to dig. It was hard work. He had to cut through a mesh of impacted household waste that lay deep under the thick, heavy mud. He was sweating in streams, probably from fever as much as from his exertions. He paused from time to time to wipe his brow, and noticed small groups of people standing immobile in the distance. They seemed to be observing him, though he could not be sure.

“Are those men who work with you?” he asked his companion.

The old man glanced around, obviously not liking what he saw. “No, that’s them,” he said. “The scavengers.”

“And who are they?” Maurice asked, as he resumed digging.

After a while, after quite a long pause, the old man said, “I think you know as well as I bloody do,” and shuffled off toward the cabin. Maurice did not try to stop him.




When he had dug a shapeless hole about three feet deep, and about twice the volume of the tin bath, he poured the bones carefully into it, and spread the blanket over them. He shoveled the mix of garbage and earth back on top of them quickly.

When he had finished, he slung the shovel over his shoulder and traipsed back toward the cabin. The groups of people appeared to have moved nearer, but were still not close enough to be seen clearly. Their faces were pale, featureless blobs. Some of them, he noticed, had very long arms and legs, but tiny bodies. The harder he stared, the stranger some of them became.

He thought he must be hallucinating; his fever was raging; he needed more medication.

His foot struck something. It looked like ivory, but was probably yellow plastic bleached by the sun. Curious, he bent and tried to pick it up. It would not move. He dug his fingers down around its curved surface and pulled hard. It moved up slightly, and he realised he was holding a bone. It looked very much like a human femur! He straightened up and twisted round, studying the surface of the ground about him intensely. Here and there other whitish lumps protruded. He stalked over to the nearest and gave it a prod with his shoe. It was another bone. He quickly identified half a dozen more, within a ten-yard circle of the first he had found. Some of the bones were… unusual.

A feeling of despair washed over him. He was convinced there were hundreds more of them, scattered out there in the tip. For a reason he could not isolate or understand, the knowledge appalled him. He panicked.

He left the spade on the ground and ran to the porta-cabin. The door and the window were both shut. The door was locked. Maurice was convinced the old man was in there; had deliberately shut himself in. He banged the door with his fist like a fool, and shouted. When he tired of this he trudged bleakly back to his car.

Before leaving, he took one last look round at the tip. There was nobody there. The scavengers had gone.

He wondered where.




He was having a bad night.

He had gone to bed early, at nine thirty, after taking a cocktail of his wife’s pills and potions, washed down with a beaker of whiskey. He had slept like a dead thing for about an hour, then had jerked awake as though someone in the room had shouted. Perhaps he had shouted. His dreams had been that bad.

Once awake, he felt terribly disappointed. He had expected to be knocked out well into the next day, but was aware his mind would permit him no more rest. He longed for sleep. He was stuck instead with a nervous, infuriating wakefulness.

He pitied himself. He felt like a tiny child locked in a cold, dark place as a punishment for something he had not done. He was alone there. He was alone in the world.

His loneliness was something he had been trying to avoid, to bury away deep in his mind. He had been partially successful in doing this, but the knowledge of his solitariness, of his lack of friends, and now, of even a wife, had festered there. Now, under pressure of the strange events of the day, and of his sickness, his isolation had burst out, and bloomed in his brain like a huge and hideous flower.

He needed to talk to someone, needed sympathy, and help of some kind.

But he had no one to turn to, no real friends. Previously, all his social life had involved his business associates. He had been closest to the other partners in the company they had created together, but they were the last people he wanted to talk to now. He had no children, his parents and other relatives were dead or estranged, and he had never joined things. He didn’t play golf, perform in amateur theatricals, or belong to the Rotarians like Neville bloody Gale.

God, he thought, I am pitiable!

Then, No, make that pathetic.

He lay alone with this insight and other thoughts, at times almost dozing, for some hours, until his door bell rang. Someone seemed to have their finger glued to the buzzer. The single ring went on and on. Every nerve in Maurice’s body jangled with it.

He sat up, switched on the bedside light, and grabbed his watch. It was ten past two in the morning.

The ringing stopped at last.

He thought he heard a thump on the door.

His house, in spite of the fact it was secondhand, was one of the most recent of its kind built in Buxton. It was big, pretentious, had been very expensive, but the walls and ceilings were thin. Sound traveled from room to room without hindrance. A radio playing softly in the kitchen could be heard clearly in the bathroom one floor up at the other end of the house. Maurice was sure someone was doing something to the front door; perhaps forcing the lock.

He sneaked downstairs in his dressing gown, shaking with sickness and, yes, he acknowledged, fear, as well!

The street light outside cast enough illumination for him to make out the shape of a figure on the other side of the distorting glass in the front door. Well enough for him to be sure that his visitor earlier in the day, who he had kicked, had returned. The man was bending forward, pushing clumsily at his letter box, trying to get something through. Part of a small package and the tips of two fingers and a thumb protruded through the slot.

Maurice went and picked up the telephone he had flung at the wall in rage after his conversation with good old Neville Gale.

The ancient instrument had survived in one piece. It was satisfyingly heavy. He went to the door, held the phone up high, and brought it down with brute force on the letter box.

There was a sound from beyond the door that made Maurice drop the phone and hide his face in his hands. It was a wall of pain, outrage, and despair, and somehow it expressed, with acute accuracy, the fears, thoughts and emotions that had been haunting him that night, and during the recent past. It gave voice to them exactly. It was as though his own soul stood out there, lost, alone, and in great agony. Maurice felt a sickening mixture of compassion and self-pity.

He was sick. He tried to reach the washing-up bowl in the kitchen, but didn’t make it.

After he had cleaned himself up, he forced himself to inspect the letter box, expecting to see blood. There was none. Fragments of charred newspaper were caught in the flap, nothing else.

No finger tips, he thought, thank God!

On impulse, he turned the locks, shot back the absurd, over-ornate bolts, and opened the door wide. He peered out at his morbidly tidy garden (his one hobby) and found it empty. All was quiet.

His cat ran urgently toward him across the road, then changed its mind, and scampered back. Something behind the privet hedge, near the spot where the cat had changed direction, moved heavily, shaking the bushes. Maurice stared hard, but could see nothing through the darkness under the tight, trimmed leaves.

A shadow passed swiftly across his lawn towards the house, as though a large bird had passed above.

But that was impossible! Nothing had moved below the streetlight, that could cast a shadow!

Then he saw something tall and thin, like the trunk of a narrow tree, in his neighbor’s garden. He was sure it had jerked into brief motion; had scuttled quickly a little closer, then gone still.

It did it again, seeming to cover ten feet of ground in a split second. It was now close enough for Maurice to form some idea about what manner of creature it was.

It had many legs.

Maurice ran inside and slammed the door. He locked and bolted it.

The door bell was operated by batteries. He removed them and put them into the pocket of his dressing gown. He sat on the stairs watching the front door for ten minutes, waiting for the bell to ring. He knew that it couldn’t, but thought perhaps it would.

He ran upstairs and threw himself into bed. He lay facedown, with a cushion over his head, cocooned in his sheets and blankets.

Later, he heard a movement on the roof. Something had climbed up there, and was making its way along the gable above his bedroom. It made harsh, scratching sounds on the tiles, and dislodged some of them. Maurice heard them crashing down into his garden. From the sounds, he judged that whatever it was had clambered out to a position just above his window.

As if to confirm this speculation, there came a loud, spasmodic tapping on the glass.

Maurice half sat up. He was glad that his curtains were pulled shut. As he stared at them, the window behind was shattered and one of them twitched open. A long, gray, scrawny limb, perhaps an arm, but without a proper hand on the end of it, waved a little bundle at him. It dropped the bundle and withdrew.

There were more scampering sounds from above as Maurice fled from the room.

He didn’t go near the packet; he thought he knew what was in it.

Something he didn’t want.




He locked himself in his office, turning all his equipment on, and played the CD his wife had given him, of soothing natural and artificial sounds, as loud as he could stand it. It had no calming effect, but it drowned out other noises. Maurice sat perfectly still in the one comfortable chair until daybreak.

Then he dressed and went out to his car.

To his surprise, hundreds of birds were singing enthusiastically all round him. It was the dawn chorus. It was just like the sounds on the CD he had been playing, and it scared him stiff.

He got hurriedly into his car and drove towards Dove Holes again.




When he reached the entry to the Victory Quarry he found the tip was closed. A heavy chain, joined at the ends by a fat padlock, was looped through the metal grill on the gates. He remembered then that it was four thirty on a Saturday morning. The tip would be shut for another forty-eight hours at least.

He got out of his car and pushed the gates hard with the heel of his shoe. They hardly moved. He climbed back into the driving seat, backed the car away as far as he could, keeping in line with the gate, then accelerated straight down the centre of the access path.

The chain and lock held when the car hit, but the hinges on the left split from the concrete gatepost, and the gates whipped up over the bonnet. Something smashed the windscreen, which fell in fragments on his lap. The car slew round out of control when he applied the brakes, and tobogganed along on top of the crust of dried mud which opened behind him like a huge wound. The line of trees flashed by as the vehicle spun. The air was full of flying earth, scraps of refuse and noise.

The rear left side of the car smacked against the right front end of the porta-cabin which reared up under the impact. It did not topple over, but jumped some distance out of its original position. The side caved in and the door flew wide open.

Maurice sat stunned in the driving seat. He didn’t seem to have hurt himself in the crash. He felt nothing except numb, possibly from all the pills he had been taking. Too many, maybe! He noticed his reactions were slowed down and movements faltering. His fingers felt wooden as he fumbled with the clip of the seatbelt. The door lock was jammed and he couldn’t open it. He crawled over the passenger seat and let himself out that way, emerging face down and on his hands.

He stood up, shook himself, and climbed onto one of the big skips to take stock of his situation.

Although the sun was hardly up, the landscape was bathed in clear, soft, almost creamy light. There were shreds of thin cloud squatting on the fields that clung to the sides of Combs Moss, and frozen billows of morning mist hovered above the surfaces of the small lakes that had formed, over the years, in the quarry bottoms. Something in motion caught his eye, running away from him along a line of wall, but he realised at once, from its russet coat, that it was only a large fox. There were rabbits, too, munching the tall grass around the edges of the tip. The air smelt clean and dry, as he imagined desert air must.

Except for the regular clanking and glugging of a distant pump engine somewhere down in the old diggings, all was stillness and silence.

Nothing moved or made a sound in the line of dark trees.

He clambered over the broken steps leading up to the cabin, and went inside.

The pile of mattresses had fanned out like a pack of cards. The old caretaker was spreadeagled across them on his back. His face looked raw, and was mottled with dark stains like those that had remained on Maurice’s hands after he had crushed the egglike object he had found. The man looked dead, but wasn’t. A heartbeat was just detectable under his overalls, and he was drawing rasping breath through his mouth. Maurice tried to rouse him, but soon gave up. The man seemed in a trance, or coma.

Many of the piles of cases and boxes scattered along the length of the cabin had toppled over and burst open. Maurice was not surprised to see that some of them had been packed with bones, and that two of them contained dozens of the eggs wrapped in scraps of grubby paper and plastic. Bundles of the long, thin bones, tied like firewood with electric cable, were revealed behind a half-fallen rubber sheet.

Maurice left the cabin and wormed his way back into his car. He tried the engine. It started without trouble and he found he was able to back the vehicle away from the cabin. He drove cautiously down into the tip. Something under the chassis was grating against the wheels, but he didn’t give it a thought.

The cinder path took him past a high wire fence marking no apparent boundary. Twice he stopped to look round, hoping to catch sight of some of the scavengers, but there was no one else about at all, he was soon convinced of that.

In one of the deeper sections of the recent workings he nosed the car out over what appeared to be dried mud when the caked surface broke and the vehicle tipped forward alarmingly. The back wheels spun strands of slime, like black mucus, out behind.

He could not reverse out. The car was sinking. Oily stuff oozed in through the bottoms of the doors around his feet.

He awkwardly hauled himself out of the passenger door again, and abandoned the car. He walked back the way he had come, out of knee deep, liquid filth, then climbed up to the top of one of the highest mounds of builder’s rubble. The position gave him a view over most of the tip. He noticed little clouds of smoke or steam were starting to drift up from the surface in various places, as though fires had been started underground. He went to investigate.

The smoke for that was what it was, was coming up through some of the tunnellike holes he had noticed on his first visit. It was slightly scented, not unpleasantly, and had a greenish tinge. He wandered round for a while, peering down into the openings, then sat down next to a large hole that was not emitting smoke. He could hear a sound deep down in the tunnel, a regular heavy pounding, like the bass line of a musical composition. He leaned out over the hole and cupped his ear with his hand. He thought he could hear other sounds down there, like snatches of a whispered conversation.

He was propped up on one arm with his hand outstretched on the encrusted mud. Suddenly, as he adjusted position, the surface gave under his weight and he dropped into the tunnel clumsily. He lay still for a moment, winded. Then instead of drawing back out again, he tentatively reached down even farther. The tunnel was quite wide enough for him to squirm into. It descended at an angel of about thirty-five degrees to the surface; a comfortable angle to slip down.

And, he judged, not so steep that he could not make his way back out again without too much trouble, if he had to.

It was not absolutely dark down there; there seemed to be some source of dim light ahead of him. Feeling his way carefully and methodically, he lowered himself into the ground. When he felt his feet slip over the lip of the tunnel, he had a momentary doubt about the wisdom of what he was doing, which he forced himself to ignore.

Moving with great caution, he descended perhaps forty or fifty feet down the narrow passage without much trouble.

The tunnel got a little less steep after a while, however, and became narrower, and he found he was having to make more effort to make any progress. Also, the air was getting musty and unpleasant to breathe.

He rested, and began to worry about the sides of the tunnel collapsing on him. He would suffocate. No one knew he was there, or would come looking for him.

Total loneliness stabbed up inside him again, with an accompanying, enervating, surge of self-pity.

Although he was strong, he was not at all fit, and what he was doing, in his condition, seemed suddenly crazy.

He was just about to start wriggling back out when he saw and heard a motion in front of him.

Something reached out of the dark ahead, and clasped his hand. It was a thin, dry, loose-skinned hand, and it took a powerful hold on his. His fingers were crushed painfully together. Whoever was in front of him began to retreat, pulling him further down the tunnel. He tried to resist, but discovered he was at the end of his strength. He plummeted lower very fast, hurting himself against stones and other objects that protruded from the sides of the crudely dug hole.

He tried to keep his free arm bent across his face to protest it, but smashed his elbow against something sharp.

He thought whoever was pulling him was whispering something earnestly to him, that he could not catch. After a while he gave up trying to hear and started howling with pain.

Something hit him hard above the right eye. He became unconscious.




There were voices in the air around him. He knew they were conversing together, not trying to communicate with him. The words they used sounded like a distorted jumble of heavily accented English that he was too weak to make the effort to understand. He lay quite still for what could have been a long time, with his eyes shut. He slept, then woke when he felt himself being lifted and moved. He was lowered to the ground with a bump that hurt. He was vaguely aware of forms and figures moving away from him. He slept again.




He woke to absolute silence.

It seemed that he was blind. He passed his fingers over his eyes and felt a sticky crush covering the top half of his face, welding his eyelids shut. He scratched at his eyes with both hands, and was relieved when the substance began to crumble away. He managed to get his eyes open and saw, as he had suspected, that it was dried blood.

He turned over on his side and tried to get to his feet. Sharp pains shot through his body, causing him to yell. From the sound of his voice, he knew he was enclosed in a small space. He collapsed into a sitting position, and looked about him.

The circular, domed compartment had walls of smoothly worked bare rock. A pale illumination, falling from a number of narrow tunnels the led diagonally up and out, from positions about three feet from the ground, showed him he was alone. Except for himself and a number of piles of the egg-like objects that were now familiar to him, resting in nests of rubbish, the room was empty. He crawled about, trying to ignore the pain in his probably broken left arm, and inspected the nests. They were about two feet in diameter, and made of the shredded, entangled remains of the sort of refuse he would have expected to find in a dustbin.

He touched some of the eggs. They looked slightly different from the ones he had seen previously. They were very warm. He felt them quiver slightly under his finger tips. Their shells were soft. They had a peculiar, pleasantly spicy smell that made him feel hungry. His stomach growled, and he tried to remember when he had last eaten. He had no idea how long he had been underground but, from the sharp, agonizing pangs in his belly, he’d been there some considerable time.

The eggs looked more and more appetizing the longer he studied them. If they taste anything like as good as they smell, he thought, they would be delicious. He picked up a handful and, with great difficulty, resisted trying to eat one.

He put five of them in the inside pocket of his torn and filthy jacket, and scrambled into one of the passages leading out.

They all pointed upward.

Presumably, if he kept going, sooner or later, he would reach the surface!

He thought he was going to die down there.

The tunnels looped and twisted off in all directions. There were places where they forked and, when they did, he always chose the path that had the steepest gradient upward. It didn’t seem to matter as, round the first bend, he frequently found himself almost falling along a stretch that took him diagonally down again. The illumination in the passages was always up ahead; somehow he could never discover its source. He was always blundering on toward the light.

From time to time he stopped to doze, then started awake and continued on. His mind was empty; his brain felt as raw as his hands. He was bleeding from dozens of small wounds. He was drenched in the sweat of fever.

When he saw a clear, whiter light ahead, he stopped because it was hurting his eyes. He lay with his chin on the ground while his sight adjusted, and the awareness that what he was looking at might be daylight gradually dawned upon him.

Strangely, he felt no elation. He felt resentment.

About bloody time, he thought.

He hesitated before completing the last stretch, unaccountably reluctant to get to the surface, now that he was almost there. Something about the quality of light caused him some trepidation; it was eerie, and not quite right.

It was like moonlight, but far too bright.




The world he emerged into was well-lit, but there was no sun shining. There was no moon, either. Above him stretched an empty, cold, silvery sky.

The topography of the landscape around him was recognizable, but was stripped of its familiar features. The shapes of Combs Moss loomed unmistakably ahead of him, but the walls and fields along its sides were gone. What remained looked like a hill of lead. Everywhere, as far as he could see, the land was smoothed off into planes of gray that gave an impression of impenetrable solidity.

When he saw the dark line of trees and the porta-cabin where he had expected them to be, he felt a surge of wild hope.

The huge black van was parked between them! Its back was open. It was parked at an angle to his line of vision, so he could only see a little way inside it. He could see nothing there but shadows.

He started to run toward the van. He hurt in every limb, and stumbled like a drunk with a wooden leg, but he had discovered a resource of determination and energy at the sight of the van. It seemed to represent his last, best hope.

When he was about fifty yards from the vehicle a figure jumped to the ground out of the back and disappeared round the side farmost from him. Maurice shouted wordlessly and made frantic efforts to run faster. He thought he heard a door slam. An engine started. The back of the van started to close automatically; a black door descended smoothly, slowly, and silently.

Maurice tried to scream. He was crying, and waving and flapping both his arms to get attention. His feet were getting heavier every step he took.

The van jerked once, then moved away. It accelerated. Maurice continued trying to run to catch it, but gave up when the vehicle vanished over the crest of the hill.

Finally exhausted, he fell to his knees.

He was facing the line of trees. They were almost leafless now, and he could see, perched on the branches, some of the things that he had not seen clearly before. They were busy at some task, flittering about individually and in groups.

Perhaps they had seen him. One of them called out what could have been a chattering, imbecilic greeting.

A number of them ventured forward out of the trees. Moving in fits and starts, they came towards him, spreading out as they did so.

The closer they got, the worse they looked.

Maurice knew he could not move another step. Resigned, he sat and waited for them.

Remembering he was hungry, he pulled one of the eggs from his pocket and put it in his mouth. Keeping his gaze steadily on the creatures, who were almost upon him, he bit down hard on the egg.




Later.

He was lying down, so he stood up.

He opened his eyes, and found he could see in all directions at once.

But he could not see directly up or down.

He tried to touch himself, to find out what he was, but he had lost the use of his arms, if he still had any.

He was hungry, but there was nothing anywhere that looked like food. Then he realized he had no mouth.

He stretched his many legs experimentally. He discovered he could move easily across the crusted surface of the earth, with almost no effort.

He made a clattering sound by rattling parts of the top of his body.

He waited.

Then, feeling deeply anxious, he scuttled towards the line of trees to join the others of his kind.

At least, he thought, I shan’t be alone.

But, when he reached the trees, he realized they had been dead for a long time.

The place was deserted.




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


The Ripper’s Tune by Gregory Nicoll. Copyright © 1993 by Gregory Nicoll for Kinesis, March 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

One Size Eats All by T.E.D. Klein. Copyright © 1993 by T.E.D. Klein for Outside Kids, Summer 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Resurrection by Adam Meyer. Copyright © 1993 by Adam Meyer for Not One of Us #10. Reprinted by permission of the author.

I Live to Wash Her by Joey Froehlich. Copyright © 1993 by Joey Froehlich for Space and Time, Spring 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

A Little-Known Side of Elvis (published originally as The Dog Park) by Dennis Etchison. Copyright © 1993 by Dennis Etchison for Dark Voices 5. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Perfect Days by Chet Williamson. Copyright © 1993 by Chet Williamson for After the Darkness. Reprinted by permission of the author.

See How They Run (published originally as For You to Judge) by Ramsey Campbell. Copyright © 1993 by Waking Nightmares Ltd. for Monsters in Our Midst. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Shots Downed, Officer Fired by Wayne Allen Sallee. Copyright © 1993 by Wayne Allen Sallee for Vicious Circle, Fall 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

David by Sean Doolittle. Copyright © 1993 by Sean Doolittle for Deathrealm #19. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Portrait of a Pulp Writer by F.A. McMahan. Copyright © 1993 by F.A. McMahan for ComputorEdge, April 16, 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Fish Harbor by Paul Pinn. Copyright © 1993 by Paul Pinn for Xenos #17. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Ridi Bobo by Robert Devereaux, Copyright © 1993 by Robert Devereaux for Weird Tales, Spring 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Adroitly Wrapped by Mark McLaughlin. Copyright © 1993 by Mark McLaughlin for Gaslight, August 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Thicker Than Water by Joel Lane. Copyright © 1993 by Joel Lane for Panurge 18. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Memento Mori by Scott Thomas. Copyright © 1993 by Scott Thomas for Haunts, Spring 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Blitz Spirit by Kim Newman. Copyright © 1993 by Kim Newman for The Time Out Book of London Short Stories. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Companions by Del Stone Jr. Copyright © 1993 by Del Stone Jr. for Crossroads, April 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Masquerade by Lillian Csernica. Copyright © 1993 by Lillian Csernica for Midnight Zoo, Volume 3, Issue 6. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Price of the Flames by Deidra Cox. Copyright © 1993 by Deidra Cox for Deathrealm, Winter 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Bone Garden by Conrad Williams. Copyright © 1993 by Conrad Williams for Northern Stories 4. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Ice Cream and Tombstones by Nina Kiriki Hoffman. Copyright © 1993 by Nina Kiriki Hoffman for Figment, Summer 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Salt Snake by Simon Clark. Copyright © 1993 by Simon Clark for Peeping Tom Issue Twelve. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Lady’s Portrait, Executed in Archaic Colors by Charles M. Saplak. Copyright © 1993 by Charles M. Saplak for Writers of the Future Volume IX. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Lost Alleys by Jeffrey Thomas. Copyright © 1993 by Jeffrey Thomas for The End Vol. I. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Salustrade by D.F. Lewis. Copyright © 1993 by D.F. Lewis for Alternaties #13. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Power of One by Nancy Kilpatrick. Copyright © 1993 by Nancy Kilpatrick for Sinistre. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Lions in the Desert by David Langford. Copyright © 1993 by David Langford for The Weerde II: The Book of the Ancients. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Turning Thirty by Lisa Tuttle. Copyright © 1993 by Lisa Tuttle for The Time Out Book of London Short Stories, edited by Maria Lexton and published by Penguin Books. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Bloodletting by Kim Antieau. Copyright © 1993 by Kim Antieau for Carnage Hall #4. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Flying Into Naples by Nicholas Royle. Copyright © 1993 by Nicholas Royle for Interzone, November 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Under the Crust by Terry Lamsley. Copyright © 1993 by Terry Lamsley for Under the Crust. Reprinted by permission of the author.




Copyright


Copyright © 1994 by DAW Books, Inc.

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by Les Edwards

DAW Book Collectors No. 968

If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

First Printing, November 1994






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