The Best Horror of the Year Volume Eleven

by Ellen Datlow

  “He won’t kill me,” I say, and Beth-Anne laughs deep in her throat so that it sounds like a snarl.

  “They can’t hunt the way we can. Looking for the small things that creep over the ground. And there’s so little meat left. So little for them to eat. They’ll die out before we do, and they’re scared and hungry.” Beth-Anne tugs at my arm. “We should go.”

  My mouth, my teeth, my throat ache, but I stand and nod. “Yes.”

  We run until our feet bleed and then still, we run, our eyes on the sky, waiting for the sun so that we might hide ourselves from the men who were once our fathers, but night is something we are caught in now, a great dome that cannot be lifted.

  When the shot comes, it is not for me. Beth-Anne jerks and grunts, but she does not stumble.

  “You have to stop,” I call to her, and she turns back, her teeth painted vermilion, and I feel only cold and hunger seeing her blood, but she reaches for me, and we run together. On and on and on into what seems like the quivering thread that separates this world from the next, but there is the crack of another shot, and Beth-Anne throws back her head and laughs and screams, and I open my mouth and scream with her. Sisters, mothers, lovers, born out of things husbands and fathers cannot comprehend.

  “We take back our own, and the doing of it makes us stronger, makes us able to move through this world that has forgotten us. When the time comes, you will eat of my body and drink of my blood, and I will always be with you,” Mama had said, and now Beth-Anne looks at me, her teeth still bared. I bare mine back and know that they are now as sharp as hers.

  When we double back, we go through the trees. Quiet and deliberate and without a sound. They do not know when we are behind them, their shoulders hunched against the cold, the only sound their ragged breath in the frozen air. We have stripped ourselves of our coats, our boots, anything that will keep our bodies from moving in the way our mothers had intended. We are hungry, and we go silently.

  I have not forgotten the shape of my mother’s face. I have not forgotten how she placed her eyeteeth in my palm and told me to eat them first.

  My father calls my name once, twice, but of all of the things I remember, I have already forgotten what it means to live inside the girl he should have taught to shoot a gun; the girl he carried out of the forest when she sprained her ankle; the girl he found covered in his wife’s blood and weeping tears dyed scarlet; the girl who became the ghost that would not vanish from his sight.

  When we have finished, Beth-Anne licks my face clean, and with the beginnings of claws, I dig the bullet from her shoulder while she sits in silence, and we turn away from the trampled earth.

  We leave the guns behind. We will not need them, and our bellies are full and cramping in the way my father explained, and I lift my eyes to watch the trees shape themselves into things I no longer recognize. “Will it always be like this?” I ask.

  Beside me, Beth-Anne is silent, but she looks back at me, and it is enough.

  HAAK

  JOHNLANGAN

  Today Mr. Haringa was wearing a scarlet waistcoat with gold trim and gold buttons under his usual tweed jacket and over his usual shirt and tie. A gold watch chain looped out of the waistcoat’s right pocket, through which the outline of a large pocket watch was visible. While Mr. Haringa was required to dress professionally, as were all staff and students at Quinsigamond Academy, he did so without the irony and even mockery evident in the wardrobe choices of many students and not a few of his colleagues: cartoon character ties, movie print blouses, black Doc Martens. His jackets and trousers were in dark, muted colors, his white button-down shirts equally unassuming, and his half-Windsor-knotted ties tended to blue and forest green tartans. If he added a sweater vest to the day’s ensemble, which he did as Fall crisped and stripped the leaves of the school’s oaks, then that garment matched the day’s color scheme. “It’s like he likes dressing this way,” the occasional student muttered, and though delivered disparagingly, the remark sounded fundamentally accurate.

  For Mr. Haringa to appear in so extravagant, so ornate an article of clothing was worthy of commentary from the majority of the student body, and a significant minority of his fellow teachers; although the conversation only circled, and did not veer toward him. Aside from the scarlet and gold waistcoat, whose material had the dull shine of age, Mr. Haringa behaved in typical fashion, returning essays crowded with stringent corrections and unsparing comments, lecturing on the connection between Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Robert Bloch’s “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper” to his two morning sections, and discussing the possible impact of Maturin’s Melmoth the Wanderer on Browning’s “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came” with the first of his afternoon classes. By his second class, the change in his attire had receded in the students’ notice.

  A few in the final session wondered if the waistcoat was related to that date on the course syllabus, which had been left uncharacteristically blank. They had completed two weeks of exhaustive analysis of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, during which they had lingered at each stop on Marlow’s journey into the interior of the African continent to meet the elusive and terrible Kurtz, examining sentences, symbols and allusions with the care of naturalists cataloging a biosphere. Ahead lay a selection of Yeats’s poetry, including “Second Coming,” which several students had mentioned they knew already but which Mr. Haringa assured them they did not. This afternoon, however, was a white space, unmapped terrain. As the rest of the syllabus was a study in meticulous planning, it seemed impossible for the gap to be anything other than intentional.

  When Mr. Haringa entered the room, he strode to the desk, removed his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, loosened the knot of his tie, pulled it from his neck, draped it over the jacket, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Had he appeared stark naked, the students could not have been more shocked. He extracted the pocket watch from the waistcoat and opened it. Although gold, or gold-plated, its surface was scratched and dented. With his left hand, he gave the crown a succession of quick turns. Roused to life, the timepiece emitted a loud, sharp ticking. Watch in hand, Mr. Haringa said, “Anyone who wants to leave is free to do so. For next class, please be sure to read “Sailing to Byzantium” and be prepared to discuss it.”

  The students exchanged glances. Mr. Haringa offering them the opportunity to depart class before the bell—after one or two minutes past the bell—was almost as startling as the scarlet waistcoat, the removal of his jacket and tie. One of the better students raised her hand. Mr. Haringa nodded at her. She cleared her throat and said, “Are you serious? We can go?” The class tensed at the directness of the question, ready for it to provoke their teacher’s notorious sarcasm.

  But his razored wit remained in its scabbard; instead, he said, “Yes, Ashley, I’m serious. If you want to leave, you may.”

  Another student raised his hand. “What happens if we stay?”

  “You’ll have to wait to find out.”

  In the end, slightly less than half the class accepted the offer. Once the door had closed on the last student’s departure, Mr. Haringa closed the watch and returned it to its pocket. “Aidan,” he said, “would you get the lights?”

  For an instant, the classroom was plunged into darkness. Someone laughed nervously. There was a click, and a series of lights sprang on around the room’s perimeter. Positioned at the base of the walls, each cast upward a crimson light whose long, oval shape suggested a window. A trick of their placement made the lights appear to hover ever-so-slightly in front of the painted brick. A couple of the students wondered when Mr. Haringa had been in to set up so elaborate a display. They had watched him walk to his car yesterday afternoon, and they had seen him exiting it this morning. Not to mention, the teacher had not impressed them as especially proficient in technology. Perhaps another faculty member had helped him? Mr. Baillie, maybe?

  Despite the fabric enveloping it, the pocket watch was louder in the crimson space, every tic
k opening into a tock. Yet when Mr. Haringa spoke, his voice, though low, was clear. “You will recall,” he said, “that, following his trip up what was then the Congo River, Joseph Conrad became ill. As does Marlow, yes. Unlike Marlow, Conrad went to a spa in Switzerland the year after his trip, to continue his recovery. He was suffering from a variety of complaints, including gout, which likely was unrelated to his time on the Congo, recurrent malaria, which likely was related to his months on the river, and pain in his right arm, which may or may not have been connected to his recent activities. Oh, and there was something wrong with his hands, too, a strange swelling. To put it mildly, he was not in good shape.

  “The spa he went to overlooked a mountain lake. A small steamboat, not unlike the one Conrad had captained on the Congo, ferried passengers to and from the spa to a modest town on the opposite shore. From his chair on the spa’s front porch, Conrad could watch it chug across the lake’s smooth blue surface. He found the sight simultaneously comforting and unnerving. Eventually, once he was feeling well enough, he left his chair, ventured down to the landing, and bought a ticket for the crossing. When the boat reached the town, he did not disembark; instead, he remained onboard as the vessel took on a fresh load of passengers and set off for the spa. At the dock, he stepped off and made his way up to the spa.

  “Conrad repeated this trip the next day, and the one after that, and every day thereafter for a week and a half. Finally, the steamboat’s captain introduced himself to him. His name was Heuvelt. He was from Amsterdam, originally, had commanded a merchant vessel in the Dutch East Indies for twenty years before retiring to the Swiss mountains, where he had established the steamboat service, and was now as busy as he had ever been. He was approximately ten, fifteen years older than Conrad, late forties to early fifties. In a letter, Conrad described him as weather-beaten to handsomeness. The two of them had a pleasant exchange. Conrad complimented Heuvelt on his vessel. Heuvelt invited him to try the wheel. Conrad declined, politely, but he and Heuvelt continued their conversation over the course of their next several visits, trading stories of their respective ocean voyages. According to everyone who knew him, Conrad was an accomplished raconteur, and apparently Heuvelt was reasonably gifted, as well. Their daily meetings, Conrad wrote, did as much to restore him to well being as any of the spa’s therapies. Eventually, he accepted Heuvelt’s offer to steer the boat, to the irritation of the young local whose job it was. Heuvelt was impressed with Conrad’s handling of the boat, and soon this became part of their daily routine. Conrad would board the steamboat, assume the wheel, and he and Heuvelt would converse while he guided the boat back and forth across the lake.

  “After another couple of weeks, Heuvelt asked Conrad if he would be interested in joining him onboard that evening, around sunset. There was something he wished to show Conrad, a peculiarity of the lake Heuvelt thought he would find of interest. Conrad agreed, and a few hours later was waiting alone on the landing as the steamboat pulled up to it. To his surprise, Heuvelt had the wheel, his young man nowhere to be found. ‘This is not for him,’ Heuvelt said, which sounds more odd, and even ominous, to us than it did to Conrad: ship captains are notorious for keeping secrets from their crew, no matter that the crew consists of a single man. Whatever their destination, Conrad understood Heuvelt was trusting him to keep it to himself.

  “Heuvelt turned the boat toward the other end of the lake, which was hemmed in by steep mountains. About halfway to their destination, the sun set, leaving in its wake a crimson sky. The water caught the light, and it was as if, Conrad wrote, they were steaming across a tide of blood, beneath a bloody firmament.”

  For an instant, a handful of students had the impression that the light saturating the classroom was in motion, as if they were seated on the steamboat with the writer and his friend. The tick-tock of Mr. Haringa’s pocket watch echoed like an enormous grandfather clock. The students shook their heads, and returned their attentions to the teacher. A couple of them noticed that, despite the red filter laid over everything, Mr. Haringa’s waistcoat remained visible as its own distinct shade of the color, but did not know what, if any, significance to ascribe to this.

  His words still audible through the pocket watch’s see-sawing progress (perhaps he was wearing a microphone?), Mr. Haringa proceeded: “With the sun setting, the mountains ahead grew shadowed. As the boat drew closer to them, Conrad saw that what he had taken for a recess among the peaks was in fact a steep valley, through which a surprisingly wide river rushed into the lake. Heuvelt turned the wheel to bring the prow in line with the river, and started them up it. To either side, thick walls rose, reducing the sky to a single red strip. There was a light on the boat, but Heuvelt made no move toward it. Conrad wondered if the man was attempting to impress him. If so, he was succeeding. While the river was sufficiently broad to admit the steamboat’s passage, rocks and clusters of rocks pushed up through its current every few yards, requiring a skill at navigation Conrad did not think he would have been able to summon. He assumed Heuvelt was steering them toward another lake, because he could see no way for the boat to turn around in the river, but he did not want to distract Heuvelt from his task by asking him if to verify his assumption.

  “They rounded a bend in the river, and there in front of them a great tree stood in the midst of the water. Easily a hundred feet high, a third that in girth, it was like no tree Conrad had seen anywhere in his travels, which, as you know, had been considerable. Deep grooves ran up its bark, clumps of moss and small plants filling the channels. Pale lichen tattooed the tops of the ridges. High overhead, thick branches formed a crown like a vast umbrella, from which a network of vines hung in loops and lines. To show him such a thing might well have been Heuvelt’s intent, but the steamboat showed no signs of stopping, so Conrad assumed there was more to come. In order to circumvent the enormous obstacle, Heuvelt had to steer perilously close to its vast trunk, an arm’s length away, less, and this close, Conrad could feel the tree’s age. This was an ancient of its kind; when the Romans were laying roads across their empire, the tree must already have stood proud. Conrad stretched out a hand to touch the hide of so venerable a being, only to be warned off completing the act by a shake of Heuvelt’s head.

  “On the other side of the tree, the river spread out dramatically. Dozens of trees, each the same species and dimensions as the one they had passed, reared from the water, a flooded forest. In the twilight the trees reminded Conrad of great beasts, a herd of prehistoric animals gathered in the water to relieve the heat of the day. It was an astonishing sight, which had not been so much as hinted at during Conrad’s time at the spa. This strained belief. Surely, he thought, a location as remarkable as the one into which the steamboat was sailing should be the pride of its location, should it not?”

  Within each of the red lights around the classroom, a darker form appeared, a thick column suggestive of the trunk of a tree, viewed from a distance. While Mr. Haringa’s pocket watch counted its time, the shapes to the class’s left became larger, the light on that side dimmer, as if the students were sailing this way. A handful of them felt the floor shift under the soles of their shoes, rising and falling as it would were they on the deck of a boat pushing up a river.

  Although he had not changed his position in front of his desk, Mr. Haringa’s voice sounded closer; eyes closed, each student might have believed their teacher was seated beside them. As he continued with his narrative, the shadowy forms bisecting the rest of the red lights expanded, until it seemed the immense trees of his story surrounded the class. He said, “Employing signposts Conrad could not identify, Heuvelt sailed a winding course through the forest. Although he considered himself possessed of a superior sense of direction, Conrad soon lost track of which way they were traveling. Thinking he would regain his bearings by checking the stars already visible overhead, he leaned out from under the boat’s roof. But he recognized none of the constellations burning in the sky from which the last traces of red had yet to vanish.
This was impossible, of course, and he wondered if the crowns of the trees spreading between him and the stars were in some way distorting his view, which was not much more likely, but preferable to the other explanations available. He retreated beneath the roof and saw Heuvelt watching him, the expression on the man’s face an indication that he knew and had shared Conrad’s observation. Such confirmation was almost too much to bear, Conrad later wrote; rather than acknowledge it, he asked Heuvelt if their destination had a name.

  “In reply, Heuvelt said, Haak.’ During his years at sea, Conrad had picked up a smattering of Dutch, but this word was unfamiliar to him. He started to ask for a translation when the steamboat chugged out of the trees into a wide pool in which sat the wreck of a great ship. It was a Spanish galleon, what you or I might imagine as an old-fashioned pirate ship, with three masts for its sails, a raised deck at its rear, and square windows perforating the sides for its cannons. Centuries had passed since such vessels had been in widespread use. The ship was tilted to the right, its wood blackened with age. Gaping holes in its left flank exposed its ribs. Its foremast had broken near the base and tipped into the water. The mainmast and mizzenmast were intact, the ragged remains of their sails and rigging draped from them like faded bunting. Amidst the tattered canvas, Conrad picked out shapes dangling from the masts, the corpses of a score of men, their flesh desiccated, their clothing rotted. They had been hanged, their hands tied behind their backs.”

  Now the darker columns within the red lights faded, to be replaced by a variety of shapes. At the front of the room, shadowy arcs suggested a ship’s ribbing, while thick diagonal lines to either side of the students stood in for the tilted masts. Interspersed among these shapes were the silhouettes of men at one end of a heavy rope, their necks crooked. Only the lights at the back of the class were absent any form, and the glow they cast forward highlighted Mr. Haringa in a hellish luminescence through which the waistcoat was visible in its own scarlet hue. The pocket watch had increased in volume to the point its TICK-TOCK shuddered the students’ desks, and not a few of them wondered how much longer it would be until a teacher in one of the neighboring rooms stuck their head in the door to request Mr. Haringa turn down the noise.