Horror Library, Volume 5

by Boyd E. Harris R. J. Cavender

  “Are you all right?” Rachel asked.

  The woman turned away, mouth working like a cow at its cud.

  “Nayyirah, where have you been? Come with me. Can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  The woman emerged from her stupor and shook her head no. She raised a hand with broken nails and waved for Rachel to go away. Nayyirah would never have broken nails. She kept them polished and trimmed and clean, they were a source of pride. The woman resumed staring at nothing.

  “Please,” Rachel said.

  Then Nayyirah made a little sound. It took Rachel a moment to place it, why it was familiar…

  “Open your mouth,” Rachel said. Nayyirah blinked at her, dark eyes full of terror but lacking understanding.

  Rachel mimed opening her own mouth, waggling her tongue around.

  Tears welled up in Nayyirah’s eyes, pregnant, lingering a moment before sliding down her round cheek, leaving a clear trail in its wake. She panted in ragged, erratic gasps. She was terrified.

  Rachel remembered that distinct guttural sound from a man she’d worked with who had come out of Saddam Hussein’s regime in Iraq. The Republican Guard had cut his tongue out when he wouldn’t speak. She would recognize those sounds anywhere.

  “Who did this to you?” she asked. Nayyirah stood, moving like she was eighty years old. She pulled away, as if Rachel was the one who had taken her tongue. What else had they done to her? Rachel remembered Gap Man, his plastic-rimmed sunglasses and the axe handle he carried so effortlessly. Where had he taken her?

  Nayyirah slunk down the sidewalk, gingerly, as though everything hurt. Rachel pulled out her cell phone, dialed Rihem, and told her what she’d found.

  “Where are you?” Rihem asked.

  Rachel looked around. She knew how she’d gotten to this market…a few blocks back from the Roushdy tram stop, around the statue of Mohammed Ali. She gave her phone to one of the men working at the market, and let him give directions in Arabic.

  She waited for Rihem to arrive, sitting on the dirty sidewalk with Nayyirah.

  Finally Rihem and Aaqib, the NGO’s driver, pulled up in a new but dented silver van. They kept studying Rachel as they helped Nayyirah into the car. They dropped Nayyirah at a local clinic they frequently used.

  “Do you know who did this?” Rachel asked Rihem.

  “No.” But Rihem dropped her gaze to the floor as she said it.

  “I don’t believe you! She’s your friend. They wanted to take me, but Nayyirah stood in for me. I have to do something.”

  “The best thing for you to do is to not think of it. This is a very strange time to be here in Egypt.” Rihem learned English as a girl, and her accent sounded more British than Egyptian.

  “Please.”

  Rihem stood and went to a window. She gazed out at the vacant lot, littered with detritus and a few homeless people.

  “Rihem, please.”

  She turned. Studied Rachel. “All right,” she said. “Aaqib will take you to them.”

  “To them? You know who this is?”

  “You’ll wish you never went, I assure you of that.”

  Rihem picked up her phone, and started a conversation. Rachel caught her own name. Warning claxons blared, but surely Rihem and Aaqib wouldn’t let any harm come to her…right?

  Rihem hung up the phone. “Meet Aaqib here at nine tonight. Now go home for the afternoon. It’s been hard for you.”

  Rachel started to argue, but Rihem’s mouth was a flat line. So she turned and left the office. She thought she heard crying as she left.

  Aaqib would keep her safe. She hurried out into the sunlight. A slew of black and yellow cabs pulled to the curb for her, but she waved them away. Sometimes Alexandrians didn’t seem to understand the idea of walking for exercise–the cab drivers least of all.

  “Welcome to Egypt!” a man cried, as he passed her on the street. Even though she’d been here for three months, any time they saw her western dress, her Caucasian features, they cried “Welcome to Egypt!” or “Hello” or “How are you?” If she felt friendly she might answer back in English or in Arabic. Today she kept her head tucked down. Sometimes the cries were friendly. Sometimes they were lascivious. Dust caked the inside of her nostrils. Some days she felt immune to the strangeness of this place, the dust from sweeping shopkeepers, the trash-littered streets, cats everywhere in various states of health; but today she missed orderly American streets. She wanted a quiet walk, away from the bleating of horns and the screech of tires.

  She struggled with the lock to her apartment like she did every day, twisting the key and tugging in on the knob while simultaneously pushing the door open. She locked it behind her, sliding in the deadbolt, and checking to make sure all the windows were tightly shuttered. Satisfied, she pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and took a drink. Nothing to do now but wait until nine. She flipped the TV on. The news showed rioting in Cairo. Comparatively, Alexandria hadn’t seen much violence. She waited.

  * * *

  Aaqib pulled his van up to the curb in front of her building promptly at nine. The streets were quiet after the curfew. He drove her to one of Alexandria’s coffee houses that catered to both male and female clientele. She went inside and scanned the crowded establishment, the air hazy with sweet, fruity shisha smoke. A hand landed on her shoulder and she jumped.

  “Hello.” It was the soldier…the one who looked like Eric. His accent was thick, but his English was good.

  “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “I have a table.” He led her to it. From the corner of her eye, Rachel saw another man watching her, familiar from somewhere. Was this a trap? Had she been set up?

  They sat down in wicker chairs, off to one side, surrounded by potted palm fronds. Rachel ordered a tea. The soldier, almost unrecognizable out of his uniform, ordered a Turkish coffee. He spoke to the waiter for both of them in rapid-fire Arabic. In his black button-down shirt, dark jeans, and black Adidas sneakers, he blended in with the rest of the men in the shop.

  “You shouldn’t be asking these kinds of questions,” he said.

  “They cut out her tongue.”

  He nodded. His dark hair was buzzed close to his scalp. “A lot happens that we can’t control.” He shook his head as the waiter brought the drinks. His sad smile would have been perfect if not for a chipped front tooth. It made him look younger than he was.

  “You haven’t told me your name.”

  “I am Mahmoud.”

  “I’m–”

  “Rachel Lawes. Rihem told me.”

  “Those men weren’t soldiers. They took my friend and they cut out her tongue.”

  Mahmoud took a deep breath. “There is a price,” he said, seeming to choose his words carefully, “to keep things running smoothly. Some things are older. Older than Mubarak. And some things Americans don’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “Your country is only a few hundred years old. Do you understand how long we have been here?”

  “But that doesn’t mean you can’t keep up with the rest of the world, value human rights. Look at–”

  “Miss Lawes, I’ll give you two choices. Walk away now, or you can learn what happened to your friend.”

  Go. Not simply back to her flat, but back to America. Home. This sounded bad.

  But she thought of Nayyirah. Could she help?

  “Is it safe?” she asked. If it was…maybe she could write an article. What about the money her NGO could get if it was well received?

  “I assure you, no one will harm you.”

  She mulled it over in her mind. Aaqib and Rihem both knew she was here. It wasn’t as though she’d gone tottering off into the Egyptian night with a stranger.

  “You’ll bring me back to my flat after?”

  “If you like.”

  He lit a cigarette. Stared at its glowing tip.

  “Please, Mahmoud. Take me to them. Do they speak English well?”

  “They speak all lan
guages.” She let Mahmoud order her another simple cup of Lipton tea, almost syrupy sweet.

  He asked her about her family, and she told him about Eric. He listened. Eric would be proud of her, proud of how brave she was.

  But she thought of Rihem and all the women who she worked with. She considered the grants she could write, articles she could publish.

  “Can we meet them someplace neutral? Can you call them here?”

  “No. If we go, I must bring you to them.”

  “Okay. Then let’s go.”

  Mahmoud gestured to her tea. “Finish. Please. You are sure about this?”

  She reminded herself again that Rihem knew where she was. She’d done the paperwork for Rachel’s visas. And he told her they wouldn’t harm her. Some people at home thought she was taking exorbitant risks simply by being in Egypt in 2011. Most everyone she’d met here was kind and warm and fantastic.

  As she sipped the scalding liquid, Rachel took an inventory of what she was wearing. A smart black pantsuit, modestly cut in the neck with a colorful scarf. On her feet were dressy black sneakers. She needed to walk a lot and couldn’t be bothered with heels. She had her camera in her purse, and also some pepper spray. It wouldn’t come to that. With the new Egypt, surely they would see reason. It would be a conversation.

  Rachel finished her tea and set the cup down on the colorful tablecloth.

  “You are sure? I don’t want to do this. But it will please them.”

  Rachel told herself that this meant they were open to negotiations and conversations, too. But his phrasing nagged at her one last time. Should she wait? Wait for what? She had a chance to speak to them, to enact real change, right now. If she’d second guessed herself, she would have gone home as soon as Mubarak fell, and look at all the wonderful things that happened in the past few months.

  “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Mahmoud’s car was a Hyundai Accent, shiny and black with only a few dents and scratches on the fenders. When he started the car, purple light flooded the cabin, and he turned down the Arabic electronica to a slightly less deafening volume. They skated through the city, the beat of the music consuming everything around her. The road was a patchwork of taillights and colorful LEDs. They curved into the heart of Alexandria, leaving the sweet-smelling sea behind them. Mahmoud guided his car like it was part of him, shifting at the right moment, weaving in and around traffic as though every other car were part of a course that he was meant to navigate. He pulled up to an ornate, tall marble gate, and killed the engine and headlights. She recognized the words “Cata-comb.” Granite shapes melted into caskets as her eyes adjusted to the light. Mahmoud let himself in through the gate, and gestured that she should follow. Did they want to meet here to scare her? It wasn’t going to work. This tourist attraction saw hundreds of visitors a day…at least it did before the revolution. They passed the closed ticket counter. It wasn’t as spectacular as she thought it might be. A few small shacks housing relics. But then, most of the attraction was underground. At the far end of the park stood a circular building. They drew closer to it. Inside, a winding staircase took tourists down into the catacombs. These tombs were from a time when Egyptian and Roman customs bled together and became almost inseparable. The catacombs felt very Roman, dotted with hieroglyphics and ornate paintings to the gods of the afterlife.

  “Watch your step,” Mahmoud said, his voice low. Her knees ached as she descended the endless short steps. When she first arrived in Alexandria, she came here once. While she was impressed by the size of the place, all the coffins and bones had been removed, and she felt she’d paid a terribly steep price to wander around underground. A thin chain stretched across the way and she turned, following a big arrow indicating where tour groups were taken.

  “No,” said Mahmoud, and lifted the chain for her. She peered off into the darkness. The moonlight from above barely lit the way. The catacombs were mysterious, but they were also familiar. Entering the restricted depths stirred the lizard part of her brain. This was wrong. Even if she was venturing here for answers about Nayyirah, this was a place she shouldn’t be.

  “If you’re going to rob me, I haven’t much money.”

  She could barely see Mahmoud’s lips form a tight smile. “I’m not going to rob you. I am simply doing as you asked. This way.”

  She followed him down into the bowels of the earth. When the last of the moonlight melted into nothing, she heard the pop of a match, and then everything was warm firelight as Mahmoud lit a torch. It seemed rather melodramatic. The last few steps were down into foul-smelling standing water.

  “Sorry,” Mahmoud said. “We are deeper than the sea.”

  Rachel said nothing, but squished along after her guide. It took only a moment for the water to soak through her sneakers, cold and malignant. She could accept, now, that this was a terrible idea. She wanted to go back, but was so close. Eric wouldn’t want her to go back, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell Mahmoud she was afraid of the dark. It was a clever place for headquarters, right under tourists’ noses. Maybe this would work out all right after all. She was here, and she might as well try to remain positive. Rihem, she reminded herself, knew who she was with.

  They moved down a stagnant tunnel with many branches. Stone coffins resided in the walls off to the sides, tucked together like post office boxes.

  Positive thinking didn’t last long as the actuality of her poor choices came to light. She would die here. The realization wound its way down her spine like a spider building a web. She looked over her shoulder into blackness. Could she make out the door? Could she go if she wanted to?

  She slowed, letting Mahmoud get further ahead of her.

  She thought she saw a sliver of golden light and she ran, back where they came from. The water slowed her, made the stones underfoot slippery, and she fell once, landing on her hands in the brackish water. She pulled herself up using slick black walls, and began again, focused on the light. She couldn’t run, she realized, the floor under foot was too uneven. So she stood up and lumbered through the darkness, her hands out feeling for her way.. Then she struck something warm and very much alive. The soft textures of a new sweatshirt. He smelled like cigarettes.

  Mahmoud’s light illuminated the man. A Gap sweatshirt. Plastic-rimmed glasses.

  The two men talked in fast Arabic, too much for her to understand.

  “It isn’t much further,” Gap Man said. His accent was easier for her to place–he twisted the “er” into an “ah.” Boston? “You got shit on my sweatshirt.”

  She’d assumed he was Egyptian.

  “Are you American?”

  “Born and raised.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “It will answer all your questions. Follow Mahmoud.”

  With that, Mahmoud started walking, and Gap Man–an American–brought up the rear. Rachel shivered in her wet clothes, her teeth knocking together.

  The air down here was stagnant and musty. The path dried out in time to come to another spiral staircase, this one even more claustrophobic than the last. Mahmoud and the light went first, then Rachel, then the American, wearing his familiar smugness.

  “You want to talk to us, huh?” he said. “About why we do what we do?”

  “No,” she said. “I just want to go home.” Her teeth were chattering in the cool air. They’d descended below sea level, but everything in this stairwell was dusty and dry.

  “Its name means Yaji Ash-Shuthath.”

  Rachel strained to understand the meaning. Normal?

  “The abnormal ones are coming.”

  They stopped in a cavern, no longer a man-made catacomb. This was older and deeper, and the writing on the walls wasn’t hieroglyphics. Mahmoud lit another torch, then inserted it into a socket in the wall. The fire lit a gaping pit in the floor, in the far end of the room. She examined him in the dancing flame. He wasn’t at all like Eric. He was older than she’d originally thought, for one thing. A man, not a
boy. In Eric’s eyes there was kindness, in Mahmoud’s only a detached pity.

  “To please the deity can bring great knowledge.”

  Deity?

  The men dropped to their knees. They began to chant

  “Y’AI’NG’NGAH

  YOG-SOTHOTH

  H’EE-L’GEB

  F’AI TRHODOG

  UAAAAH”

  In that final ululating note, the earth began to tremble. Tears rained freely from Rachel’s eyes. She didn’t care anymore, didn’t care about any of this. She closed her eyes, then her lids grew bright with the glow of an unseen light. When she looked, she found before her a multitude of glowing spheres of light. A thousand of them. A million of them. The glowing spheres became everything, became her world, became the universe. As she reached out to touch them, knowledge flooded her. It was all futile–men did not serve one another. Wars and NGOs and human rights and the Red Cross became as nothing to the cosmos. Rachel began to laugh. There wasn’t a point to any of this. The only point was glowing spheres. She laughed, but something in her mouth hunkered in the way. As she bit it, it tasted deliciously of copper and blood. She spat it, thick and pink on the stone floor, an offering to the thing in the pit.

  Her laughter sounded different after that.

  Kristin Dearborn spent two fantastic months in Alexandria, Egypt in winter/spring of 2011, as the Arab Spring was beginning. Nothing scary or threatening happened, but there was an undercurrent of stress and anxiety in any large gathering or politically sensitive locale. Before travelling under the Suez Canal, her bus was emptied out and searched by very young-looking soldiers who carried very large guns. Kristin’s Arab Spring trip to Egypt was wonderful, but it got her thinking about a trip that wasn’t so successful…