The Barrens & Others

by F. Paul Wilson

"Annie's eyes brightened as I came into the room. She hadnever spoken. Couldn't, it seemed. Her face could do virtually nothing in the way of expression, and her flipper-like arms weren't good for much, either. You had to read her eyes, and that wasn't easy. None of us knew how much of a brain Annie had, or how much she understood of what was going on around her. My mother said she was bright, but I think Mom was a little whacko on the subject of Annie.

  "Anyway, I stood over her crib and started shouting at her. She quivered at the sound. I called her every dirty name in the book. And as I said each one, I poked her with my fingers – not enough to leave a bruise, but enough to let out some of the violence in me. I called her a lousy goddam tunafish with feet. I told her how much I hated her and how I wished she had never been born. I told her everybody hated her and the only thing she was good for was a freak show. Then I said, 'I wish you were dead! Why don't you die? You were supposed to die years ago! Why don't you do everyone a favor and do it now!'

  "When I ran out of breath, she looked at me with those big eyes of hers and I could see the tears in them and I knew she had understood me. She rolled over and faced the wall. I ran from the room.

  "I cried myself to sleep that night. I'd thought I'd feel good telling her off, but all I kept seeing in my mind's eye was this fourteen-year old bully shouting at a helpless five-year old. I felt awful. I promised myself that the first opportunity I had to be alone with her the next day I'd apologize, tell her I really didn't mean the hateful things I'd said, promise to read to her and be her best friend, anything to make it up to her.

  "I awoke next morning to the sound of my mother screaming. Annie was dead."

  "Oh, my God!" Martha said, her fingers digging into his arm.

  "Naturally, I blamed myself."

  "But you said she had a heart defect!"

  "Yeah. I know. And the autopsy showed that's what killed her – her heart finally gave out. But I've never been able to get it out of my head that my words where what made her heart give up. Sounds sappy and melodramatic, I know, but I've always felt that she was just hanging on to life by the slimmest margin and that I pushed her over the edge."

  "Kevin, you shouldn't have to carry that around with you! Nobody should!"

  The old grief and guilt were like a slowly expanding balloon in his chest. It was getting hard to breathe.

  "In my coolest, calmest, most dispassionate moments I convince myself that it was all a terrible coincidence, that she would have died that night anyway and that I had nothing to do with it."

  "That's probably true, so–"

  "But that doesn't change that fact that the last memory of her life was of her big brother – the guy she probably thought was the neatest kid on earth, who could run and play basketball, one of the three human beings who made up her whole world, who should have been her champion, her defender against a world that could only greet her with revulsion and rejection – standing over her crib telling her how much he hated her and how he wished she was dead!"

  He felt the sobs begin to quake in his chest. He hadn't cried in over a dozen years and he had no intention of allowing himself to start now, but there didn't seem to be any stopping it. It was like running down hill at top speed – if he tried to stop before he reached bottom, he'd go head over heels and break his neck.

  "Kevin, you were only fourteen," Martha said soothingly.

  "Yeah, I know. But if I could go back in time for just a few seconds, I'd go back to that night and rap that rotten hateful fourteen-year old in the mouth before he got a chance to say a single word. But I can't. I can't even say I'm sorry to Annie! I never got a chance to take it back, Martha! I never got a chance to make it up to her!"

  And then he was blubbering like a goddam wimp, letting loose half a lifetime's worth of grief and guilt, and Martha's arms were around him and she was telling him everything would be all right, all right, all right...

  *

  The Detective Harrison understand. Can tell. Want to go kill another face now. Must not. The Detective Harrison not like. Must stop. The Detctive Harrison help stop.

  Stop for good.

  Best way. Only one way stop for good. Not jail. No chain, no little window. Not ever again. Never!

  Only one way stop for good. The Detective Harrison will know. Will understand. Will do.

  Must call. Call now. Before dark. Before pretty faces come out in night.

  *

  Harrison had pulled himself together by the time the kids came home from school. He felt strangely boyant inside, like he'd been purged in some way. Maybe all those shrinks were right after all: sharing old hurts did help.

  He played with the kids for a while, then went into the kitchen to see if Martha needed any help with slicing and dicing. He felt as close to her now as he ever had.

  "You okay?" she said with a smile.

  "Fine."

  She had just started slicing a red pepper for the salad. He took over for her.

  "Have you decided what to do?" she asked.

  He had been thinking about it a lot, and had come to a decision.

  "Well, I've got to inform the department about Carly Baker, but I'm going to keep her out of the papers for a while."

  "Why? I'd think if she's that freakish looking, the publicity might turn up someone who's seen her."

  "Possibly it will come to that. But this case is sensational enough without tabloids like the Post and The Light turning it into a circus. Besides, I'm afraid of panic leading to some poor deformed innocent getting lynched. I think I can bring her in. She wants to come in."

  "You're sure of that?"

  "She so much as told me so. Besides, I can sense it in her." He saw Martha giving him a dubious look. "I'm serious. We're somehow connected, like there's an invisible wire between us. Maybe it's because the same thing that deformed her and those other kids deformed Annie, too. And Annie was my sister. Maybe that link is why I volunteered for this case in the first place."

  He finished slicing the pepper, then moved on to the mushrooms.

  "And after I bring her in, I'm going to track down her mother and start prying into what went on in Monroe in February and March of sixty-eight to cause that so-called 'cluster' of freaks nine months later."

  He would do that for Annie. It would be his way of saying good-bye and I'm sorry to his sister.

  "But why does she take their faces?" Martha said.

  "I don't know. Maybe because theirs were beautiful and hers is no doubt hideous."

  "But what does she do with them?"

  "Who knows? I'm not all that sure I want to know. But right now–"

  The phone rang. Even before he picked it up, he had an inkling of who it was. The first sibilant syllable left no doubt.

  "Ish thish the Detective Harrishon?"

  "Yes."

  Harrison stretched the coiled cord around the corner from the kitchen into the dining room, out of Martha's hearing.

  "Will you shtop me tonight?"

  "You want to give yourself up?"

  "Yesh. Pleashe, yesh."

  "Can you meet me at the precinct house?"

  "No!"

  "Okay! Okay!" God, he didn't want to spook her now. "Where? Anywhere you say."

  "Jusht you."

  "All right."

  "Midnight. Plashe where lasht fashe took. Bring gun but not more cop."

  "All right."

  He was automatically agreeing to everything. He'd work out the details later.

  "You undershtand, Detective Harrishon?"

  "Oh, Carly, Carly, I understand more than you know!"

  A sharp intake of breath and then silence at the other end of the line. Finally:

  "You know Carly?"

  "Yes, Carly. I know you." The sadness welled up in him again and it was all he could do to keep his voice from breaking. "I had a sister like you once. And you... you had a brother like me."

  "Yesh," said that soft, breathy voice. "You undershtand. Come tonight, Detective Harrishon." />
  The line went dead.

  *

  Wait in shadows. The Detective Harrison will come. Will bring lots cop. Always see on TV show. Always bring lots. Protect him. Many guns.

  No need. Only one gun. The Detective Harrison's gun. Him's will shoot. Stop kills. Stop forever.

  The Detective Harrison must do. No one else. The Carly can not. Must be the Detective Harrison. Smart. Know the Carly. Understand.

  After stop, no more ugly Carly. No more sick-scared look. Bad face will go way. Forever and ever.

  *

  Harrison had decided to go it alone.

  Not completely alone. He had a van waiting a block and a half away on Seventh Avenue and a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, but he hadn't told anyone who he was meeting or why. He knew if he did, they'd swarm all over the area and scare Carly off completely. So he had told Jacobi he was meeting an informant and that the van was just a safety measure.

  He was on his own here and wanted it that way. Carly Baker wanted to surrender to him and him alone. He understood that. It was part of that strange tenuous bond between them. No one else would do. After he had cuffed her, he would call in the wagon.

  After that he would be a hero for a while. He didn't want to be a hero. All he wanted was to end this thing, end the nightmare for the city and for poor Carly Baker. She'd get help, the kind she needed, and he'd use the publicity to springboard an investigation into what had made Annie and Carly and the others in their 'cluster' what they were.

  It's all going to work out fine, he told himself as he entered the alley.

  He walked half its length and stood in the darkness. The brick walls of the buildings on either side soared up into the night. The ceaseless roar of the city echoed dimly behind him. The alley itself was quiet – no sound, no movement. He took out his flashlight and flicked it on.

  "Carly?"

  No answer.

  "Carly Baker – are you here?"

  More silence, then, ahead to his left, the sound of a garbage can scraping along the stoney floor of the alley. He swung the light that way, and gasped.

  A looming figure stood a dozen feet in front of him. It could only be Carly Baker. She stood easily as tall as he – a good six foot two – and looked like a homeless street person, one of those animated rag-piles that live on subway grates in the winter. Her head was wrapped in a dirty scarf, leaving only her glittery dark eyes showing. The rest of her was muffled in a huge, shapeless overcoat, baggy old polyester slacks with dragging cuffs, and torn sneakers.

  "Where the Detective Harrishon's gun?" said the voice.

  Harrison's mouth was dry but he managed to get his tongue working.

  "In its holster."

  "Take out. Pleashe."

  Harrison didn't argue with her. The grip of his heavy Chief Special felt damn good in his hand.

  The figure spread its arms; within the folds of her coat those arms seem to bend the wrong way. And were those black hooked claws protruding from the cuffs of the sleeves?

  She said, "Shoot."

  Harrison gaped in shock.

  *

  The Detective Harrison not shoot. Eyes wide. Hands with gun and light shake.

  Say again: "Shoot!"

  "Carly, no! I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to take you in, just as we agreed."

  "No!"

  Wrong! The Detective Harrison not understand! Must shoot the Carly! Kill the Carly!

  "Not jail! Shoot! Shtop the kills! Shtop the Carly!"

  "No! I can get you help, Carly. Really, I can! You'll go to a place where no one will hurt you. You'll get medicine to make you feel better!"

  Thought him understand! Not understand! Move closer. Put claw out. Him back way. Back to wall.

  "Shoot! Kill! Now!"

  "No, Annie, please!"

  "Not Annie! Carly! Carly!"

  "Right. Carly! Don't make me do this!"

  Only inches way now. Still not shoot. Other cops hiding not shoot. Why not protect?

  "Shoot!" Pull scarf off face. Point claw at face. "End! End! Pleashe!"

  The Detective Harrison face go white. Mouth hang open. Say, "Oh, my God!"

  Get sick-scared look. Hate that look! Thought him understand! Say he know the Carly! Not! Stop look! Stop!

  Not think. Claw go out. Rip throat of the Detective Harrison. Blood fly just like others.

  No - No - No! Not want hurt!

  The Detective Harrison gurgle. Drop gun and light. Fall. Stare.

  Wait other cops shoot. Please kill the Carly. Wait.

  No shoot. Then know. No cops. Only the poor Detective Harrison. Cry for the Detective Harrison. Then run. Run and climb. Up and down. Back to new home with the Old Jessi.

  The Jessi glad hear Carly come. The Jessi try talk. Carly go sit tub. Close door. Cry for the Detective Harrison. Cry long time. Break mirror million piece. Not see face again. Not ever. Never.

  The Jessi say, "Carly, I want my bath. Will you scrub my back?"

  Stop cry. Do the Old Jessi's black back. Comb the Jessi's hair.

  Feel very sad. None ever comb the Carly's hair. Ever.

  1988

  Another bridesmaid year – twice this time. Both "Traps" and "Dat Tay Vao" made the final ballot for the Bram Stoker short story award from the Horror Writers of America. The kiss of death. The vote was split and I lost. A neat little trophy, the Stoker. I would have loved one.

  1988 was a strange year. I rarely do non-fiction, but I started off the year writing a short essay for Horror: The 100 Best Books. Stephen Jones and Kim Newman wrote from England and asked me to name horror books I'd like to write about. I offered only one: The Exorcist. As far as I'm concerned, this is the most effective horror novel ever written, wrenching on both the visceral and metaphysical levels. They said go ahead and I knocked it out in an evening.

  After that, I plunged back into Reborn. Later in the year I finished "Kids," the final novella in the saga of Sigmundo Dreyer, which when cobbled together would become the novel Dydeetown World.

  In the spring of 1988 I was introduced to the world of television screenwriting (see "Glim-Glim" for more on that) and a few months later I was offered an opportunity to bring back Repairman Jack.

  foreword to "A Day in the Life"

  One of my phone friends, Ed Gorman (with whom I've spent countless hours in conversation but have never met) mentioned that he and Marty Greenberg were co editing an anthology called Stalkers for Dark Harvest / NAL. Would I care to contribute? I said I'd been itching to revive Repairman Jack, the lead character from The Tomb. How about a Jack story? Ed, a Repairman Jack fan since the git-go, told me I had to do it.

  The Tomb had been published five years earlier. It hit the bestseller lists, won the Porgie Award from The West Coast Review of Books, and the mail began pouring in. I'd closed the novel with Jack's life hanging by a thread, and readers wanted to know: What happened to Repairman Jack? When are you going to do another Repairman Jack novel? I didn't want to get involved in a series character, but the book kept selling, and the letters we still coming in.

  Then there was the Hollywood interest. New World Pictures had optioned the novel but a combination of low-rent antics by Fred Olen Ray and a lousy screenplay (they moved the action to Pasadena!) had the project dead in the water. I dashed off a spec script in an eleventh-hour attempt to save it, but too late. Maybe just as well. The rakoshi, the Bengali temple demons who provide the horror, would have presented an almost insurpountable challenge in those pre-CGI days. How do you make them look real? The line between horror and hilarity is a couple of nanometers thick. A rakosh is scary; a guy in a rubber suit is dumb.

  As I write this (2012), Beacon Films has had The Tomb in development hell for 18 years.

  But back in the late '80s, the Hollywood connection provided an ulterior motive for writing a new Repairman Jack story. I had created a number of original action sequences for the Repairman Jack screenplay I sent to New World, and I wanted to protect them. The best way to do
that was to copyright them in a story. They're all in "A Day in the Life."

  I called Marty Greenberg (the world's most prolific anthologist – I doubt even he knows how many anthologies he's edited) for more details on the anthology, and during that conversation (the first of many) he managed to tap me to edit one of the anthologies the Horror Writers of America were shopping around. That was how Freak Show began, but that's a whole other story…

  Stalkers turned out to be a hugely successful anthology – book clubs, audio version, and multiple foreign editions. But by contributing to that anthology I opened the door to the insidious influence of Martin H. Greenberg. Little did I know then what effect that seemingly innocent act would have on my short story output.

  More on Marty as we go. And for those who care, the Tram character previously appeared in "Dat-Tay-Vao."

  A Day in the Life

  When the cockroach made a right turn up the wall, Jack flipped another shuriken across the room. The steel points of the throwing star drove into the wallboard just above the bug's long antennae. It backed up and found itself hemmed in on all sides now by four of the stars.

  "Did it!" Jack said from where he lay across the still made hotel bed.

  He counted the shuriken protruding from the wall. A dozen of them traveled upward in a gentle arc above and behind the barely functioning TV, ending in a tiny square where the roach was trapped.

  Check that. It was free again. Crawled over one of the shuriken and was now continuing on its journey to wherever. Jack let it go and rolled onto his back on the bedspread.

  Bored.

  And hot. He was dressed in jeans and a loose, heavy sweater under an oversized lightweight jacket, both dark blue; a black-and-orange knitted cap was jammed on the top of his head. He'd turned the thermostat all the way down but the room remained an oven. He didn't want to risk taking anything off because, when the buzzer sounded, he had to hit the ground running.

  He glanced over at the dusty end table where the little Walkman sized box with the antenna sat in silence.

  "Come on, already," he mumbled to it. "Let's do it."