by John Pelan
Just above Richardson's shoulder blades, coating the fur, was a greenish black patch, the touch and smell of it terribly familiar. I pulled aside the fur and was horrified to see that the stuff not only covered the hair, but was also spreading out across the skin. Like an iceberg, the part that was visible was just the tip. A patch of skin about six inches square was covered by the stuff, and where the dog had been worrying it with his teeth he had drawn blood. It didn't look good.
“I think we ought to let the vet check him out,” I said calmly, not wanting to alarm Martina.
“I'll take him,” Milos said. “Martina, you can come with us. It will give us a chance to talk, yes? We need to talk.”
Martina shrugged and went across to Gielgud, who was lying on the grass chewing a large cow bone. I saw she was going over his fur carefully, looking for any sign of the mold or whatever it was.
Milos went to fetch Richardson's lead while I ruffled the dog's neck and spoke softly to him. “Soon have you right, old fellow,” I said, but I didn't believe it for a moment.
Milos and Martina arrived back from the vet's without Richardson.
“They kept him in for tests,” Martina said. “The vet seemed completely baffled by it. He's bringing in a skin specialist from the veterinary hospital at Brookman's Park.”
“It will be expensive,” Milos added. “But I told them I'd pay any amount of money to ensure Richardson's recovery.”
When Sally returned she invited me to stay for dinner. I accepted, but reluctantly—I had a ton of work to be getting on with at home, but I felt that to refuse would seem churlish. I also noticed that Martina's attitude toward Sally had softened considerably. Over dinner I learned that, surprisingly, Martina agreed with Sally about the dresser and Milos's new obsession with it. That development, at least, was welcome. Milos didn't join us for the meal, engaged as he was in what he called his “new research.”
What wasn't welcome was a telephone call from the vet to tell us that Richardson had passed away. The details were sketchy, but it seemed that they were performing a small exploratory operation to take samples of the growth on his skin, when the dog went into shock. A cardiac arrest followed. They failed to save him.
At the news Martina burst into tears and ran upstairs to her room. Sally cradled the receiver and stared blankly out through the window to where Gielgud, Richardson's brother, was asleep on the grass, enjoying the rays of the early evening sun. She looked around at me. “It's all falling apart, Colin,” she said, a tear slipping down her cheek. “All falling apart.”
I touched her shoulder, and without hesitation, too quickly in fact, she melted into my arms and we were kissing guiltily, but with vigor.
When I arrived home later that night the answering machine light was blinking frantically. Six messages. I swore. I needed some time to think about what had happened. Although it had been some years since my divorce I realized that an involvement with Sally would be life-changing, and I wasn't sure if I was ready for that.
Of the six messages, three were from prospective clients, so I noted those; one was from the bank, giving me the personal touch; and two were from Billy McQueen—the last of which sounded desperate: “If you can't ring back then check your bloody e-mails!”
I switched on my laptop and logged on. There were a few messages but only one of importance, only one from McQueen.
It's Tommy, my boy. The cut got worse so I took him to hospital. They kept him in because the wound seemed to be infected, they said. They've just rung me. He's in a coma. They don't think he's going to come around. Ring me, Colin. It's about the dresser.
I swallowed some brandy and dialed McQueen's number.
Fear skulked in the rector's face, but he fashioned a mask of eager devotion to hide his true feelings. It was no more than he had spent a lifetime doing. The refuse of their feasting was now littered about the floor. Martha was a good girl, a daughter to be proud of, but what was pride beside the quest he had set himself for an immortal place amongst the banished ones of his desires? The chance meeting he had witnessed between the squire and the brittle monstrosity on that moonless night had led him here to this nirvana. Tonight he had glimpsed the promised land of his dreams, and it was not the Holy Land enshrined within his Scriptures, nor any heaven promised to those who led a blameless life or repented. It was a dark fantasy of vibrant colors, filled with oddly shaped beasts that crawled and slithered, that murmured incoherently yet with a language he knew would have meaning if only he were given access to the secrets he craved.
The squire stood up and adjusted his clothing, dishevelled from the enjoyment he had taken from the rector's daughter. He had known she would make an excellent sacrifice, and if his own base pleasure could be satisfied at the same time, then so much the better. The human form he had adopted might be impossible to discard after so many centuries, but there were a few human vices that dulled the constant yearning to return to his natural existence.
The creatures around him were still basking in the youthful enjoyment they had partaken. If only they knew how few of them would survive to join their ancestors in the perpetual struggle against infinite banishment. Let them seek a few moments of carnality before they were lured back to their cellar and their darkness.
It was the beast that had come to be celebrated as the Green Man that needed his attention now. It was too soon, even after so many years, for it to seek escape, and so he had to bind it once more to the Earth With wood ripped from the pews of the now desecrated church he had arranged for one of his men to fashion the pot dresser. When it was completed the squire had slit the man's throat, allowing the blood to act as a binding agent to the images carved into the wood. Now that same agent was required to lure the inhuman creatures back. In a fluid movement the squire pierced the artery of the hapless rector, pushing him onto the dresser so that the rich blood adorned the wood, as though anointing a new believer.
The pillow was damp from her tears. She rolled from the bed, went to the dressing table, and blew her nose on a tissue from a box decorated with teddy bears. The bedroom was the same uncertain mix of child and young woman. Lacy underwear lying next to a nightgown with cartoon rabbits on the front. Soft toys on a shelf, above which a pop star poster boasted bare chest and hard eyes.
She had cried when her mother had died, but she had been so young it was difficult to know whether the tears came from deep knowledge or raw emotion. She had cried today when she heard about the death of her dog. Then she had seen Sally kissing Colin, and she didn't know what to think. Her first instinct had been to tell her father, but his study door was closed and—she found—locked. Shut out, she was confused.
Martina went across to the window and looked out at the darkened garden. After a short while her eyes grew accustomed to the blackness and she could make out familiar shapes. Then a movement caught her attention. It was a large garden, divided into almost separate sections by clumps of bushes and trees. A small stand of fruit trees sat at the end of the garden, and hanging from the bough of an old Bramley apple tree was a swing, an old wooden one that had been there when they had bought the house. They all liked it.
Sitting on the swing was a girl about her age, long brown hair swishing in the night air. Her loose cotton smock was well past the summer's fashion trends. She was swinging gently, almost in slow motion, but all the time staring up at Martina's window.
Martina ran across the room and switched out the light so that she could get a better look at the girl. When she returned to the window the swing was still in motion, but it was empty. The girl had gone.
At the far corner of the garden Martina thought she could see a flash of white cotton, perhaps the girl's smock dress, but there was insufficient light to be sure. Then she thought she could see other shapes in the garden, different from those she could remember from the daylight. It was as if the garden at night had become a playground for things that hid during the day. Almost as if the girl on the swing had drawn Martina's attention to her so that the nightt
ime creatures could slip into the garden unseen.
There was something attractive about the unrestrained jerking of the creatures, something that seemed to draw Martina down to them, to want to join them. She pulled on a fleece for warmth and ran down the stairs. She reached the kitchen, then the back door, and turned the key in the lock.
McQueen answered the telephone on the second ring.
“Colin. Thank God.” He sounded desperate.
I began to mumble an apology for not calling sooner but he cut me off with “Tommy's dead. He never regained consciousness, and they switched off the monitors about an hour ago.”
“Are they saying what he died of?”
There was a mirthless laugh from his end. “Heart failure. Cause unknown. Christ, I laid into that doctor, not his fault, but a strapping lad like that. It isn't right a small cut should lead to this.”
The cut. The dresser. The dog. The dresser. The mold, and the way the blood faded into the wood when McQueen himself was cut. Selfishly I thought about Sally, and then ridiculously of the contract money I was still owed. I was so far into selfish thought that I was missing what McQueen was saying.
“… still got it?”
“Sorry, got what?”
“The bill of sale we took from the dresser drawer when you bought it off me. Surely you remember?”
I had forgotten about it completely and had to think carefully where I'd put it. I roamed back in my mind to the day I saw the dresser for the first time, I had gone to see McQueen by appointment, and I was wearing … I dashed for the wardrobe, leaving McQueen hanging on. The jacket I had worn that day was hanging inside the wardrobe and the bill of sale was still inside. A little crumpled, already torn and ink faded from the years, but it was there and it was intact. I couldn't decipher the writing or understand the language in which it was written, but my scant knowledge of old mythology was enough for me to recognize what I thought it was. It certainly wasn't a bill of sale.
The night was a quiet lake of still calm. There were tranquil pools where a sly moon splashed puddles of light. All was peaceful and all was enticing. Martina stepped outside, and the coolness of the air touched her young skin, raising slight goose bumps on her body.
The girl was on the swing again, her bare legs flashing like pale moonbeams in the silent garden. If there was rustling in the bushes Martina was deaf to it. If shadows formed behind her, with shapes that were less than natural, she was blind to them.
Martina had thought she would have to search the garden to find the girl, so she was delighted to see her. Then the girl jumped down from the swing and for a moment Martina thought she was going to run away again. Instead the girl stood erect, her head pushed back, her arms outstretched, her eyes closed yet staring up at the moon.
Walking toward her Martina became aware of muted music in the background, the organ from a church service. A small breeze played on the girl's neck, sweeping her hair over her eyes. She made no attempt to brush it away. Then she turned her neck toward Martina and opened her eyes. For the first time Martina felt cold reality drench her dreamlike state. The girl's eyes were as white as the moon, the milky white of blindness, and yet it was clearly evident that she could see and that she was directing things around her with liquid movements of her arms. Things that lumbered out of the darkness, pallid countenances draped with cunning and anger. Noises emanated from them that had the form of words but sounded into the night air like evil thunder crashing from below as well as from above the earth.
Screaming with an intensity that shocked even her Martina ran back to the house. The door opened and she sobbed with joy to see the secure figure of her father standing there.
“Martha, your special day has arrived,” Milos said.
The kitchen was awash with light when I arrived. A distraught Sally finally answered my frantic knocking at the door. She had obviously just jumped out of bed wearing only a cotton nightgown, her hair dishevelled.
The door to the garden was wide open and cool air played into the house from outside. It was impossible to tell if the discordant organ music was coming from outside the house or was playing in one of the rooms, possibly Milos's study. Sally thought he was still in there. He had refused to join her and Martina for supper and locked himself in. Apparently he had been shouting to himself earlier, strange words that sounded like a contorted version of his mother language, but which she instinctively knew wasn't.
A foul stench wafted in from the garden, a mixture of the earthy smell Martina had complained about and rotting flesh. It was the smell I would expect if a centuries-sealed pit were opened up.
When we came to the kitchen the scene was worse than I had imagined. With Sally beside me in the doorway to the hall I could see the whole of the kitchen. The pot dresser was swaying. The wall behind it was covered in the green mold, pieces of plaster flaking off and falling to the floor. The dresser itself seemed alive with a pulse of its own, swaying with an ancient rhythm that matched the music and the noises from the night.
Martina was trapped against the dresser. She didn't appear to be tied to it, but her arms and legs were held firmly against it and only her head seemed capable of movement, and that only to mirror the awful motion of the dresser. Her clothes had been ripped off and her fragile nudity added to her vulnerability.
Sally was wrong; Milos was not in the study. He stood in the doorway to the garden, facing out, chanting. He was holding a drawer of the dresser in his hands, and he seemed to be searching it for something. He was clearly distressed that the drawer was empty. He was beseeching something that I could not see.
The dresser suddenly stopped moving, and my attention fell to it. The mold had streaked out so that it covered the whole ceiling in fine irregular lines, as though someone had randomly flicked paint there. Martina was almost unconscious; her head slumped onto her shoulder. Then I noticed the Green Man carving was gone. In its position at the top of the dresser was a gaping hole, as though a huge bite had been taken from it.
Milos turned. He shouted at me, “Have you seen it? Do you have it?”
At first I thought he referred to the carving, but his continued search of the empty drawer told me what he was looking for.
I held aloft the piece of paper we had once thought was an innocent bill of sale. “Is this what you're after, Milos?”
He glared at me, and the force of fury that controlled his mind behind those eyes was as strong as it was evil. “Give it to me,” he demanded.
“So that you can bring them back? What then?”
Sally tried to wrest the paper from my hand, but I pushed her away. “What is it?” she asked. “Give it to him if it stops all this.”
I shook my head. “We have no idea what this is, Milos.” I looked again at the ancient and crumbling paper, dry and cracked from the centuries. I glanced quickly at the indecipherable words upon it, words that meant little to me, but despite that I was certain that if Milos got his hands on them, sure catastrophe would follow.
The windows shattered and a huge green leg broke through. The foul stench of decay accompanied it, and the door was ripped from its hinges as another huge shape smashed against it.
Suddenly Martina let out a great cry and fell to the floor. The dresser began to shake. Sally cupped Martina in her arms and both of them closed their eyes.
I began to tear the paper into pieces.
Milos started shouting in desperation. “The sacrifice is ready. The untouched maiden is yours. Make me like unto you. Please.” He ran to the door and the wind whipping into the room lashed at his clothes as if they were sails on a ship.
Martina was crying and laughing at the same time. Sally clearly thought it was hysteria and hugged her all the tighter. But I guessed why she had been able to escape from the dresser and the sacrificial rituals.
“You're not a virgin, are you, Martina?” I asked, almost laughing out loud myself.
“It was only once—but it was enough, wasn't it?”
The gr
een leg lifted away and the roar that filled the night scared the moon.
The paper was in tiny pieces now and I flung it at the dresser. It stuck to the mold, and where it touched the wood began to smolder and smoke as if about to burst into flames.
It wasn't easy and my hands and shoulders got badly burned, but I maneuvered the dresser out of the kitchen into the garden and shut the door, pushing the table and chairs against it by way of flimsy defense.
Through the shattered window I was able to see Milos as he was taken. There were bulbous heads lolling on shrunken bodies, and willowy tentacles that adorned bodies shaped like animals. An outline of a large human shape, with a headdress of leaves, dominated all the restless creatures, directing them all, even the ones with limbs like rope and insect heads.
As the tumult diminished the last thing I saw was the swing at the bottom of the garden. There was a young girl on it, sitting perfectly still. Her eyes were open, yet she seemed to be sleeping.
THE CABIN IN THE WOODS
Richard Laymon
1
After the sun goes down, I never leave the cabin. I secure the shutters and barricade the door and sit close to the fire.
I have no doubt, however, it can come in if it wants.
So far, it hasn't tried.
I've been living in fear of the night that it does, for the feeble shutters and hingeless, unlocked door will stand no chance against an onslaught by the horrible thing.
I would escape if I could… flee from the cabin and these desolate hills… lose myself in the crowds and bright lights of a metropolis and never again set forth into the wilderness. I dare not, however, attempt it.
I have no means of transportation other than my own two feet, you see, and the nearest town is many miles away. Even if I should begin my journey at the very first hint of dawn, I fear that night would find me still hurrying through the vast, wooded wilderness.
And it would come for me.
Certainly, I might be lucky enough to stumble upon a refuge for the night. A hunting shack, perhaps, or another cabin. Or I might happen upon a road; a vehicle might stop for me and a kind driver might offer me passage to a place of safety.