The Year's Best Horror Stories 11

by Karl Edward Wagner (Ed. )

The nightmare began quite simply.

  In fact, Russell Southers had not the slightest inkling that he was entering into a nightmare at the time. He was passing his Sunday as he always did in the fall: seated before the Zenith Chromacolor III, watching the Giants invent new ways to lose a football game, while his wife Mitzi read The New York Times.

  “Jesus Christ!” yelled Russell, as the Giants’ fullback bucked the middle of the Packer’s goal-line defense for the fourth time without scoring.

  “Oh, Russell, look at this picture . . .” said Mitzi, showing him a page from The Times Magazine.

  “First down on the two! On the two, and they can’t score! I can’t believe it . . .”

  “Russell?”

  “What, honey?” He looked at his wife as the thought of how she could dare interrupt him during a football game (especially after thirteen years of marriage) crossed his mind.

  “Look at this picture,” she said again.

  A razor blade commercial blared from the Zenith, and he turned to regard his wife. She was holding up a full-page advertisement from The Times Magazine, which featured a sad-eyed child in rags, framed by a desolate village background. It was a typical plea from one of those foster-parent programs which sponsor foreign orphans in far-away countries stricken with war, famine, and disease. SPARE THE CHILD said the banner line atop the picture, while smaller print explained the terrible level of life, then informed the reader how much money to send, where, and how the money would help the poor, starving children.

  “Yeah, so what?” asked Russell as he glanced at the page.

  “So what? Russell, look at the little boy. Look at those big, dark eyes! Oh, Russell, how can we sit here—in the lap of luxury—while those little babies are starving all over the world!”

  “Lap of luxury!” The commercial had ended and the Packers were driving upfield from their two-yard line with short passes and power sweeps.

  “Well, you know what I mean, Russell . . . it says here that we can be foster parents for a child for as little as fifteen dollars a month, and that we’ll get a picture of our child and letters each month, and we can write to him too.”

  “Uh-huh . . .” The Giants’ middle linebacker had just slipped, allowing the Packers’ tight end to snare a look-in pass over the middle. “Jesus!”

  “So I was thinking that we should do something to help. I mean, we pay more than fifteen dollars a month for cable TV, right?”

  “What? Oh, yes, Mitzi . . .” The Packers’ quarterback had just been thrown for a loss, momentarily halting their surge upfield.

  “Well, can we do it?”

  Another commercial, this time about the new Chrysler, hit the screen, and Russell looked at his wife absently. “Do what?”

  “Why, become foster parents! Russell, look at this picture!”

  “I looked at the picture, Mitzi! What do you want me to do with it . . . frame it and put it over the mantel, for Christ’s sake!”

  Mitzi remained calm. “I said I want to join the ‘Spare the Child’ program, Russell. Can we do it?”

  “What? You want to send money overseas? How do we know the kids are even getting it? Look at that ad—do you know what it costs to run a full-page ad in the Times! They don’t seem like they need our measly fifteen bucks . . .”

  “Russell, please . . .” She smiled and tilted her head the way she always did when she wanted something. The game was back on, and he was tired of being interrupted. What the hell? What was another fifteen bucks?

  “All right, Mitzi . . . we can do it.” He exhaled slowly and returned to his game. The Giants lost anyway.

  About twelve weeks after Russell and Mitzi filled out the Spare the Child application and had sent in their first monthly check (and their second and third), they received a letter and picture from their foster child. The air mail envelope carried the return address of Kona-Pei—a small atoll in the Trobriand Islands group. Russell would not have known this piece of arcane geographical knowledge had not he received an official welcoming/confirming letter from the World Headquarters of Spare the Child several weeks previously. The letter also provided additional data.

  His foster child’s name was Tnen-Ku. She was a twelve-year-old girl, whose parents had been killed in a fishing-canoe accident, and who now lived at the island’s missionary post, under the guardianship of her kinship-uncle, Goka-Pon, the village shaman.

  Tnen-Ku’s picture was a small, cracked, 3-x-5 black-and-white Polaroid snap, featuring a gangly pre-pubescent girl. She had long, straight, dark hair; large, darker almond-eyes; cheekbones like cut-crystal; and a pouting mouth that gave the hint of a wry smile at the corners. She wore a waist-to-knee wrap-around skirt and nothing else. Her just-developing breasts were tiny, suntanned cones, and she looked oddly, and somewhat chillingly, seductive to Russell when he first looked at her photograph.

  Somewhat fascinated, Russell scanned her first correspondence:

  Dear Second-Papa Russell:

  This is to say many thanks for becoming my Second-Papa. The U.S.A. money you send will let me not live at Mission all the time. You make my life happy.

  Tnen-Ku

  Mitzi was not altogether pleased with the first correspondence because Russell was named and she was not. And it was Mitzi’s idea in the first place!

  Russell Southers tried to placate his wife by saying that it was probably island custom to address only the male members of families, and that Mitzi could not expect the Trobriand Islanders to be as liberated as all the folks in northern suburban New Jersey. The tactic seemed to please Russell’s wife, and soon her little foster child, Tnen-Ku, was the prime subject of conversation and pride at Mitzi’s bridge games and garden parties. In fact, she began carrying the picture of the young girl about in her purse, so that everyone would be able to see what her new child looked like.

  Even though Russell found Mitzi’s behavior effusive and a bit embarrassing, he said nothing. After thirteen years of marriage, if he had discovered anything, it was that as long as the indulgence was not harmful or detrimental, it was usually better to give in to make Mitzi happy. And it seemed as though it was the little things in life that gave his wife the most joy. So fine, thought Russell, what’s fifteen bucks, if it makes my wife happy?

  And so each month, he wrote a check to the Spare the Child Foundation, and about once every third month, he and Mitzi would receive a short, impersonal note from the young island girl with the hauntingly deep, impossibly dark eyes.

  Dear Second-Papa Russell,

  This is to say many-thanks for more U.S.A. dollars. Maybe now I never go back to Mission. My life is happy.

  Tnen-Ku

  Perhaps the most exasperating part of the young girl’s letters was the unvarying sameness of them, and although this did not bother Russell, it began to prey upon Mitzi.

  “You know, Russell, I’m getting sick of this little game,” said Mitzi, out of the blue, while she and Russell were sitting in bed reading together.

  “What little game, honey?” asked Russell absently. He was right in the middle of The Manheist Malefaction, the latest Nazi spy-thriller on The Times bestseller list, and was not surprised to be interrupted by Mitzi’s non sequitur, since it had been one of her most enduring attributes.

  “That foster-child thing . . .” she said in some exasperation, as though Russell should have known what had been preying on her mind.

  “You mean Tnen-Ku? Why? What’s the matter?” Russell laid down the book (he was at a familiar part of the plot—where the confused, but competent, protagonist has just met the standard young and beautiful companion), and looked at his wife.

  “Well,” said Mitzi, “I mean, it’s nice being a foster parent and all that, and I guess I should feel good about helping out a poor child, but . . .”

  “But what?” asked Russell. “Is it getting to be old hat?”

  “Well, something like that. I mean, those letters she writes, Russell. If you can even call them letters . . . They’re so bor
ing, and she never says anything interesting, or nice to us . . . I feel like we’re just being used.”

  “Well, we are being used a little, but that’s what it’s all about, Mitzi.”

  “Maybe so, but I thought it would be more exciting, more gratifying to be a foster parent for a little foreign child . . .” Mitzi looked to the ceiling and sighed.

  “But we’re supposed to be doing it so that Tnen-Ku feels happier, not necessarily for our own betterment or happiness. Isn’t that what’s important?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Russell. You’ve seen that picture they sent us . . . that little girl doesn’t look like she’s so bad off.” Mitzi harrumphed lightly. “She looks like a little tart, if you ask me!”

  Russell chuckled. “Well, you certainly have changed your tune lately!”

  “No, I haven’t! It’s just that being a foster parent isn’t what I thought it would be . . .”

  “Are you sure that you’re not just getting tired of it, that the novelty is wearing off? Remember how you were at first about backgammon? The aerobic dancing? And when’s the last time you went out jogging?”

  “Russell, this is different . . .”

  “Okay, honey. We can drop out of the program any time you want. We didn’t sign any contract, you know.”

  Mitzi sighed and looked up at the ceiling as though considering the suggestion. “Well, if you really don’t think she needs our help . . .”

  “Wait a minute, this is your idea, remember!” Russell smiled, as it was always Mitzi’s way—to twist things around so that it always seemed like Russell was the one who would bear responsibility for all decisions.

  “Well, I know, but I wouldn’t want to do anything behind your back. Besides, I was thinking that we could use some new drapes in the living room. The sun is starting to fade those gold ones, and we could use that fifteen dollars each month to pay for them . . .”

  And so, having planted the seed, not another month went by before Mitzi announced to Russell that it was okay to drop out of the Spare the Child program, having already picked up a sample fabric book, trying to decide which new color would look best in her chrome-and-glass living room. Russell wrote a letter to the Spare the Child offices in New York City, politely explaining that financial pressure had forced them to withdraw from the program. He expressed the hope and good wishes that Tnen-Ku would continue to receive assistance from a new foster parent, and thanked them for the opportunity to be of some help, at least for a brief time.

  Before the new drapes were delivered, he received a letter from the Trobriand Islands:

  Dear Second-Papa Russell,

  The mission-peoples say that you will send no more U.S.A. dollars for me. I am very sad by this. That means I must live at Mission again, and I do not like that. Goka-Pon say a father cannot give up his child. Do you know it is forbidden? Please do not stop U.S.A. dollars. For you and me.

  Tnen-Ku

  “Now isn’t that strange,” said Russell, reading the young girl’s letter over a Saturday breakfast. “Forbidden, she says . . . I wonder what that means? And what about this ‘for you and me’?”

  “Don’t pay any attention to it dear. She’s probably trying to make you feel guilty. You know what they say about people who get used to charity—they lose all incentive to do things for themselves, and all they learn is how to become professional beggars. By us stopping that money, we’re probably doing the best thing in the world for her. Maybe she’ll grow up now, and be somebody.” Mitzi poked at the bacon which sizzled in the pan, turned over the more crispy pieces.

  Russell tossed away the letter and did not think about it for several weeks, until he received a plea from the Spare the Child Program to reconsider canceling his donation. It was similar to the form letters one gets from magazines when you have obviously intended not to renew a subscription. He was going to throw it out but decided that a final, short note to the offices would stop any further correspondence. He wrote telling them that he did not intend to contribute to the foster-parent plan ever again and wished that they would stop badgering him. That ended it, or so he thought.

  Two months later, he received a hand-written note from the Trobriand Islands group:

  Dear Second-Papa Russell,

  Mission-peoples say no more U.S.A. dollars from you. This very bad. Goka-Pon say you must be punished.

  Tnen-Ku

  Understandably, Russell was outraged and fired off another letter to the Spare the Child Program, enclosing a xerox of what he termed an “ungrateful, arrogant, and threatening” letter. He informed the agency that if he received any more correspondence from Tnen-Ku, he would initiate legal actions against the agency.

  A secretary from the Spare the Child offices wrote a perfunctory apology which promised that Russell Southers would not be troubled again, and this seemed to appease both him and Mitzi, until three weeks later, when the cat died.

  Actually, their cat, Mugsy, did not die; it had been killed—strangled and then nailed to Russell’s garage door above a jerkily scrawled inscription which could have been in blood: Tnen-Ku. It was as though the young girl had sent them more correspondence, although of a different nature.

  At first, Mitzi was horrified and Russell infuriated. They called the police, who did not seem terribly interested; the Spare the Child agency, which denied any culpability; and Russell’s lawyer, who said that perhaps a flimsy case could be made against the agency but suggested that one of Russell’s friends was most likely playing a very bad joke on him.

  Russell was shocked to see the high levels of indifference and lack of true concern for what was happening to him but felt helpless to do much more than complain himself. He thought of writing a long threatening letter to Tnen-Ku, but something held him back. After all, it was impossible that the child had anything to do with Mugsy’s demise—the island of Kona-Pei was thousands of miles from New Jersey. But what the hell was going on?

  Second-Papa? Second-Papa . . .?

  Russell was awakened from a deep sleep by the voice. In the first moments of wakefulness; he found himself thinking that her voice sounded very much like he would have imagined it to sound.

  Whose voice!? Bolting straight up, Russell stared down to the foot of the bed and felt his breath rush out of him. His flesh drew up and pimpled and he felt immediately chilled. There was a figure, a young girl, bathed in a shimmering aura of spectral light, facing him. Her hair was long and dark, and her eyes seemed like empty holes in her face. Her thin, bronzed arms were reaching out to him . . .

  “It can’t be . . .” whispered Russell, his voice hoarse and full of uncontrollable fear, a fear he had never known.

  Second-Papa, said Tnen-Ku. I would have been happy. I would have been grateful to you forever. I would have come to you . . . like this . . . for make you happy . . . not sad.

  Russell blinked, looked over at Mitzi, who was still sleeping. For an instant, he wondered why she had not heard the child; then he realized that he was only hearing the words in his mind.

  “Why?” he whispered. “What do you mean? Why are you doing this?”

  I would have given you this . . .

  Russell stared at the young girl, watching her hands move slowly to her waist, to the simple knot which held the wraparound skirt about her body. With a deliberate slowness, Tnen-Ku worked at the knot.

  No! thought Russell, as a conflicting rush of feelings jolted him. He wanted to look away from the vision, but something held him. The shining figure had taken on a strangely erotic, yet fearsome aspect, and he was transfixed.

  As the knot loosened, Russell found himself entranced by the deep tan of her flesh, and as the cloth began to slowly fall away, he became fascinated by the suggestion of flaring hips, the roundness of her soon-to-be-a-woman’s belly. He felt himself becoming sexually aroused as he had never in his life, and a fire seemed to be raging in his groin. Tnen-Ku held the fabric of the skirt by a small corner so that it hung limply in front of her, flanked by her naked hips and
thighs.

  Russell felt that he would explode from the throbbing pressure inside his trembling body, and watching her fingers release the skirt, he screamed involuntarily.

  Instantly the vision of the girl disappeared, cloaking the bedroom in darkness and the echo of his scream. Mitzi had jumped up, grabbing him.

  “Russell, what’s the matter with you? You’re soaking wet! What happened?”

  Still trembling, Russell continued to stare at the foot of the bed. “Bad dream,” he said weakly. “Bad dream . . . I’ll be okay.”

  But he was not okay and was never okay again.

  For the first few days after the vision of Tnen-Ku, Russell Southers had convinced himself that it had not actually happened, that he had witnessed nothing more than a singularly, realistic dream of some of his darker subconscious desires. He found that he could not rid his mind, however, of the disturbing image of the young girl untying her native skirt. He was thinking of her constantly as though becoming obsessed. While commuting to work, while at the office in Manhattan, and even at home with Mitzi watching TV, Russell was plagued by the vision of Tnen-Ku at the foot of his bed. When he concentrated on it, he could hear her voice calling out his name.

  But that was only the beginning.

  While watching the evening news after his daily martini, while Mitzi prepared dinner, Russell was shocked to see a bulletin teletype-overlay snake across the screen while the commentator spoke of a warehouse fire in Brooklyn:

  TNEN-KU IS WATCHING YOU SECOND-PAPA RUSSELL

  “Jesus Christ!” yelled Russell, sitting straight up, staring at the TV screen, waiting for the message to roll across the bottom of the picture again. Impossible! I didn’t see it! But you did see it . . . He felt a lump in his throat as he sat gripping the arms of his chair, waiting for a repeat of the words which did not come. He thought that he was starting to lose his sanity, and that scared him too. He was thinking about that little sexy brat too much, that was it. Got to stop thinking about it, that’s all.