‘My what?’
I couldn’t judge whether his tone was of hysterical amusement or panic or both. ‘Beatrix,’ I said, more loudly than I liked to in the abnormal silence and darkness. ‘Is it your child?’
‘There isn’t one.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured, uncertain whether I should be. ‘You mean Beatrix . . .’
I was loath to put into words what I assumed she must have done, but he shook his blurred head and took an uncertain step towards me. I had the impression, which disturbed me so much I was distracted from the word he’d inched closer to mutter, that he couldn’t quite remember how to walk. ‘What are you saying?’ I shouted before my voice flinched from the silence. ‘What’s absurd? Never mind. Tell me when you’re in the car.’
He’d halted, hands dangling in front of his chest. His protruding teeth glinted, and I saw that he was chewing -seemed to glimpse a greenishness about his mouth and fattened cheeks. ‘Can’t do that,’ he mumbled.
Did he mean neither of us would be able to return to the car? ‘Why not?’ I cried.
‘Come and see.’
At that moment no prospect appealed to me less - but before I could refuse he turned his back and leapt into the dark. Two strides, or at least two convulsive movements, carried him to the doorless entrance to the church. The next moment he vanished into the lightless interior, and I heard a rapid padding over whatever served for a floor; then, so far as the throbbing of my ears allowed me to distinguish, there was silence.
I ran to the church doorway, which was as far as the faintest glow from my headlights reached. ‘Crawley,’ I called with an urgency meant to warn him I had no intention of lingering, but the only response from the dark was a feeble echo of my call, followed by a surge of the omnipresent vegetable stench. I called once more and then, enraged almost beyond the ability to think, I dashed to my car. If I had still been rational - if the influence of Warrendown had not already fastened on my mind - I would surely have left my acquaintance to his chosen fate and driven for my life. Instead I fetched my flashlight from under the dashboard and having switched off the headlamps and locked the car, returned to the rotting church.
As the flashlight beam wavered through the doorway I saw that the place was worse than abandoned. The dozen or so pews on either side of the aisle, each pew broad enough to accommodate a large family, were only bloated green with moss and weeds; but the altar before them had been levered up, leaning its back against the rear wall of the church and exposing the underside of its stone. I swung the beam through the desecrated interior and glimpsed crude drawings on the mottled greenish walls as shadows of pews pranced across them. There was no trace of Crawley, and nowhere for him to hide unless he was crouching behind the altar. I stalked along the aisle to look, and almost fell headlong into a blackness that was more than dark. Just in time the flashlight beam plunged into the tunnel which had been dug where the altar ought to have stood.
The passage sloped quite gently into the earth, further than my light could reach. It was as wide as a burly man, but not as tall as I. Now I realized what my mind had been reluctant to accept as I’d heard Crawley disappear into the church - that his footfalls had seemed to recede to a greater distance than the building could contain. I let the beam stray across the pews in a last desperate search for him, and was unable to avoid glimpsing the images scrawled on the walls, an impious dance of clownish figures with ears and feet so disproportionately large they must surely be false. Then Crawley spoke from the tunnel beyond the curve which my light barely touched. ‘Come down. Come and see.’
A wave of the stench like a huge vegetable breath rose from the tunnel and enveloped me. I staggered and almost dropped the flashlight - and then I lowered myself into the earth and stumbled in a crouch towards the summons. The somnolence audible in Crawley’s voice had overtaken me too, and there seemed no reason why I should not obey, nor anything untoward about my behaviour or my surroundings. Even the vegetable stench was to my taste, because I had inhaled so much of it since venturing back to Warrendown. Indeed, I was beginning to want nothing more than to be led to its source.
I stooped as far as the bend in the tunnel, just in time to see Crawley’s heels vanishing around a curve perhaps fifty yards ahead. I saw now, as I had resisted hearing, that his feet were unshod - bare, at any rate, though the glimpse I had of them seemed hairier than any man’s feet should be. He was muttering to me or to himself, and phrases drifted back: ‘. . . the revelations of the leaf . . . the food twice consumed...the paws in the dark. .. the womb that eats . . .’ I thought only my unsteady light was making the passage gulp narrower, but before I gained the second bend I had to drop to all fours. Far ahead down the increasingly steep tunnel the drumming I’d heard earlier had recommenced, and I imagined that the models for the figures depicted on the church walls were producing the sound, drumming their malformed feet as they danced in some vast subterranean cavern. That prospect gave me cause to falter, but another vegetable exhalation from below coaxed me onwards, to the further bend around which Crawley’s heels had withdrawn. I was crawling now, content as a worm in the earth, the flashlight in my outstretched hands making the tunnel swallow in anticipation of me each time my knees bumped forward. The drumming of feet on earth filled my ears, and I saw Crawley’s furred soles disappear a last time at the limit of the flashlight beam, not around a curve but into an underground darkness too large for my light to begin to define. His muttering had ceased as though silenced by whatever had met him, but I heard at last the answer he had given me when I’d enquired after the child: not ‘absurd’ at all. He’d told me that the child had been absorbed. Even this was no longer enough to break through the influence of whatever awaited me at the end of the tunnel, and I crawled rapidly forward to the subterranean mouth.
The flashlight beam sprawled out ahead of me, doing its best to illuminate a vast space beneath a ceiling too high even to glimpse. At first the dimness, together with shock or the torpor which had overcome my brain, allowed me to avoid seeing too much: only a horde of unclothed figures hopping and leaping and twisting in the air around an idol which towered from the moist earth, an idol not unlike a greenish Easter Island statue overgrown almost to featurelessness, its apex lost in the darkness overhead. Then I saw that one of the worshipping horde was Crawley, and began to make out faces less able to pass for human than his, their great eyes bulging in the dimness, their bestial teeth gleaming in misshapen mouths. The graffiti on the church walls had not exaggerated their shapes, I saw, nor were they in costume. The earth around the idol swarmed with their young, a scuttling mass of countless bodies which nothing human could have acknowledged as offspring. I gazed numbly down on the ancient rite, which no sunlight could have tolerated - and then the idol moved.
It unfurled part of itself towards me, a glimmering green appendage which might have been a gigantic wing emerging from a cocoon, and as it reached for me it whispered seductively with no mouth. Even this failed to appal me in my stupor; but when Crawley pranced towards me, a blasphemous priest offering me the unholy sacrament which would bind me to the buried secrets of Warrendown, some last vestige of wholesomeness and sanity within me revolted, and I backed gibbering along the tunnel, leaving the flashlight to blind anything which might follow.
All the way to the tunnel entrance I was terrified of being seized from behind. Every inhabitant of Warrendown must have been at the bestial rite, however, because I had encountered no hindrance except for the passage itself when I scrambled out beneath the altar and reeled through the lightless church to my car. The lowered heads of the cottages twitched their scalps at me as I sped recklessly out of Warrendown, the hedges beside the road clawed the air as though they were determined to close their thorns about me, but somehow in my stupor I managed to arrive at the main road, from where instincts which must have been wholly automatic enabled me to drive to the motorway, and so home, where I collapsed into bed.
I slept for a night and a day,
such was my torpor. Even nightmares failed to waken me, and when eventually I struggled out of bed I half believed that the horror under Warrendown had been one of them. I avoided Crawley and the pub, however, and so it was more than a week later I learned that he had disappeared - that his landlord had entered his room and found no bed in there, only a mound of overgrown earth hollowed out to accommodate a body - at which point my mind came close to giving way beneath an onslaught of more truth than any human mind should be required to suffer.
Is that why nobody will hear me out? How can they not understand that there may be other places like Warrendown, where monstrous gods older than humanity still hold sway? For a time I thought some children’s books might be trying to hint at these secrets, until I came to wonder whether instead they are traps laid to lure children to such places, and I could no longer bear to do my job. Now I watch and wait, and stay close to lights that will blind the great eyes of the inhabitants of Warrendown, and avoid anywhere that sells vegetables, which I can smell at a hundred yards. Suppose there are others like Crawley, the hybrid spawn of some unspeakable congress, at large in our streets? Suppose they are feeding the unsuspecting mass of humanity some part of the horror I saw at the last under Warrendown?
What sane words can describe it? Partly virescent, partly glaucous - pullulating - internodally stunted - otiose - angiospermous - multifoliate— Nothing can convey the dreadfulness of that final revelation, when I saw how it had overcome the last traces of humanity in its worshippers, who in some lost generation must have descended from imitating the denizens of the underworld to mating with them. For as the living idol unfurled a sluggish portion of itself towards me, Crawley tore off that living member of his brainless god, sinking his teeth into it to gnaw a mouthful before he proffered it, glistening and writhing with hideous life, to me.
* * * *
Ramsey Campbell has recently completed a new suspense novel, The Last Voice They Hear. His other novels include The House on Nazareth Hill, The One Safe Place and The Long Lost. On the non-fiction side his latest contribution is a major piece on British film history in Stefan Jaworzyn’s Shock. His published short stories run into the hundreds, and his collections include Waking Nightmares, Strange Things Stranger Places and Alone With the Horrors. Campbell’s short fiction has been included in both previous editions of Dark Terrors and about his contribution to this volume, he recalls: ‘Before learning from Leiber and Nabokov and Graham Greene, I acquired skills by imitating Lovecraft, and I’ve often felt there are a few more Lovecraftian tales in me. (In one of my early stories, “The Insects from Shaggai”, I made such a hash of Lovecraft’s unused idea about alien insects that guilt keeps prompting me to have another go at it.) A couple of years ago I was Guest of Honour at Necronomicon in Massachusetts, and Chaosium, the American publisher of Lovecraftian role-playing games - some of whose players, I hear it rumoured, have to be let out of their attics by their families to play, and then only by a light too dim for a sane eye to discern their outlines - undertook to publish a book in tribute. This was Scott David Aniolowski’s anthology Made in Goatswood, composed of stories set in the Cotswold area I’d made peculiarly my own - and I do mean peculiarly. Scott asked if I would provide an Introduction, but it occurred to me that here was the perfect excuse for me to develop one of the Lovecraftian ideas lurking in the pit I call my brain. I wrote it in time for the book to be launched at the convention, and read it aloud there, to the unstoppable accompaniment of a New Orleans jazz band in the nearby restaurant. Despite that, it was gravely received. When I performed it later for the Preston SF Group, however, some Lovecraftian tittering was audible from Bryan Talbot, most recently famous - deservedly so - as the creator of The Tale of One Bad Rat. Can he have glimpsed some dark secret of my tale?’
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* * * *
Skinned Angels
KATHRYN PTACEK
Jim didn’t want to go into the shop, but his wife insisted. ‘We’re tourists, and we should be doing touristy things,’ she said.
He relented. After all, it was his vacation - their vacation -and they were out to have fun, or at least that was the theory. Poking around in old shops was his wife’s idea of amusement; it wasn’t his, but he wanted to please her. They’d had some problems recently, and this trip to Santa Fe was one of the things they’d thought might start to help.
The bell clanged over the door as Jim pushed the glass door open. Immediately he wrinkled his nose. Old dust, dried herbs, perfumes and spicy incense assaulted his senses, and beneath it was the smell of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He wanted to sneeze, but managed to control it.
Bev was already across the room, examining some rugs heaped into mounds along one side of the store. They had a handful of Indian rugs in their house and he hoped she wouldn’t insist that they buy some more. He didn’t know why he resisted everything; it wasn’t as if buying one more rug would break them financially, and he actually liked Indian rugs quite a lot. ‘You’re so negative,’ Bev accused him, and she was right. He was negative, but he couldn’t seem to help it.
No, he amended with a faint smile, he was positive he was negative.
He ambled over to the ramshackle bookcase that all these stores along this little Santa Fe street - hardly more than a burro lane, really - seemed to have and scanned the titles. Most were in Spanish, which he didn’t know despite having lived in New Mexico for over thirty years. He had avoided learning the language, although he didn’t know why because he spoke German and French, and could make himself pretty well understood in Italian. Spanish should have come to him so easily. But he hadn’t wanted to learn it, hadn’t seen the need, despite working with Spanish-speaking men and women ever since he got out of college.
You’re just being stubborn, his mother used to say. And she was right.
Stubborn and negative, he thought, and wondered how anyone stood him.
He took a look around the store and saw some leather goods - boots and saddles mostly — in one section, some bright clothing hanging from a few racks, a chest that looked like it had numerous little perfume bottles on it, and all around the room stood case after case of jewellery.
If they ever outlawed jewellery in Santa Fe, the city would go belly-up, he thought. That’s fairly uncharitable, he realized. He could add that to his long list of growing sins.
The autumn light filtered in through the dirty window and he felt warm standing in front of the bookcase. It was a comfortable feeling, and for a moment he didn’t want to move, didn’t want to do anything, and it was as if he’d gone into another dimension because he couldn’t hear anyone, couldn’t smell anything, not even the too-sweet perfumes and incense. It was just him and the bright sunshine, and—
‘Jimmy, come look at this!’
The sound of his wife’s voice was like the ripping of a membrane, and he shook himself, almost more a shudder. He left the mildewing tomes and headed across the room. At first he couldn’t locate her, then he saw her standing at a counter. She was being waited on by an old man.
He became aware then that there were two girls – excuse me, he chided himself, that was young women these days -standing not far from Bev, pointing at something in the glass case; one was talking while the other giggled. He came up alongside his wife and smiled automatically. If he did anything else, she’d want to know what was wrong, and he would say nothing was wrong, but she wouldn’t believe him, and they’d go back and forth like that until something was the matter.
‘Look, Jimmy, aren’t they great?’ She dangled a pair of silver earrings from her fingers, while the clerk smiled expectantly at him. She was waiting, he knew, for his response. His positive response.
‘They’re nice, honey. Really nice.’ Actually he thought they looked like a dozen or more other pairs of earrings she had pawed through in the dozen or more other shops they’d stopped in today.
There you go exaggerating, his teachers said, that’s very unprofessional and unnecessa
ry.
These earrings, though, had inlaid turquoise in the silver triangles, and were pretty in an unflashy way. But still. . .
She was watching him, waiting for him to speak the magic words, although she hardly needed permission.
‘Well, Bev, if you want them, go ahead and buy them.’ His smile widened, and it seemed like his face was about to crack open. There, he’d said them. She had dozens of earrings in her jewellery cases, maybe more, and she had her own income and didn’t need his permission to buy anything, but she always waited for him to say that.
She looked at the old man and shook her head. ‘Not quite right. What else do you have?’
Jim never understood that, either. He said the so-called magic words, thinking she wanted to hear him say it was all right to buy whatever, and then she always put the item back. As if she no longer wanted it. He wondered what would happen if he didn’t say go ahead and buy it/them/whatever. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to find out, at least not now. This was, after all, their reconciliation trip.
For the next half hour Bev examined all the silver earrings in the three trays the old guy put up on the counter. She held one from each pair up to an ear and asked Jim for his opinion, and he smiled, his face now feeling frozen into that expression, and she’d sigh and put the earring down and pick up the next one. She went through a fourth tray, then decided to look at rings, trying each one on. The minutes ticked by, and Jim shifted from one foot to another. Behind him the warm sunshine tugged, and he wanted to stand there in the golden light and pretend to read the titles of the books even though he wasn’t cold or anything, but he knew the minute he did, Bev would call to him.
The Gollancz Book of Horror - [Dark Terrors 05] Page 12