“We had the fire department here this morning, Cassy,” Dave said. “After you left. Did you forget to turn off the burner?”
Cassy felt numb, confused. “Well, maybe ... I’m not sure ...”
“Sure she did.” Vickie, dressed in tight jeans and Dave’s sweatshirt, came through the door that joined their room to the kitchen. “It was her crap piled up on the stove that caught fire. If Bruce hadn’t smelt it, we would’ve all burned to death in our sleep.” She thumped across the floor in bare beet and confronted Cassy. “What’s with you anyway?”
“I’m sorry ...” Cassy had only a vague recollection of her hurried breakfast of coffee, toast, and donuts. “I’ve been so busy lately ...”
“Busy—jeez!” Vickie threw up her hands violently. “We could be dead right now, and you’re busy!” She rolled her eyes ceilingward. “How do we know you won’t do it again tomorrow? You sneak around here, and never talk to anybody ...”
Dave put a hand on her shoulder, gingerly. “Vickie, I think she gets the idea.”
“Butt out, Dave.” Vickie twisted out from under his hand and went on, “You stay up all night. You know, we can hear you moving around up there. When you walk back and forth, it makes the whole house creak.”
Cassy reddened. “Well, that’s better than some of the things I’ve heard coming from your room!” She turned and started down the hall.
Vickie ran out of the kitchen after her. “Bullshit! You almost burned us alive! You leave your coffee grounds all over—and the weird stuff you eat takes up most of the space in the fridge!”
Dave was physically restraining her. “That’s enough, Vick.”
“I don’t care,” she screamed. As Cassy started up the back stairs, Vickie was yelling, “Why don’t you just move out!”
Next day Cassy sat in the office of Dean Moody while he thumbed through her master file. Over his shoulder, visible through the Venetian blind, the soaring ivory tower of the Campanile chimed out eleven o’clock. He looked up and pinched his clean-shaven lips into a smile.
“Just an oversight, you say? Well, whatever the cause, I think we can make an exception in view of your excellent academic record. It can be written up as a late drop for health reasons. All that will be required are the signatures of the instructor and your faculty advisor.” He took a card from his desk drawer, filled it in partially, and handed it to her. “You can turn it in at the window downstairs.”
Cassy had no difficulty getting the signature of her advisor, Professor Langenschiedt. He was so busy between the affairs of the Medical Physics Department and the Academic Senate that he scarcely listened to her explanation before expressing every confidence in her good judgment, signing the form, and hurrying her out.
The approval of the course instructor was another matter. Cassy had some uneasiness about approaching him to tell him she’d lost interest in his class. Every academician takes his job seriously; she didn’t really suppose that he’d consider her case important enough to warrant withholding his signature, but she anticipated an unpleasant encounter.
She had reconstructed a fairly clear mental picture of Professor Thayer from the beginning of the term: tall, tweedy, with squared-off tortoiseshell glasses and gray hair sculptured around his brow. His lectures had been dry and dispassionate, giving no hint of his general disposition.
She looked up his office number and went in search of it. Her quest took her through the cavernous lobby of Dwinelle Hall and into its dim, labyrinthine recesses. In building the hall and adding Dwinelle Annex, the designers had violated some basic law of architectural geometry, or else one of human perception. Angular corridors and half-flights of stairs created baffling and often frightening missteps for those who ventured inside. The sickly-brown light reflecting off the floor added to the eerie effect. But after many detours and hesitations, Cassy found the indicated door, number 1521, and knocked. “Come in!”
As she opened the door a flood of daylight came through, so that she could see only the outline of the man behind the desk. The tall window looked out on a tree-filled quadrangle, and the north wall opposite was bright with sun.
Professor Thayer closed the book before him and motioned Cassy to a chair. “Hello, Miss ... uh, I’m pleased to see you. Aren’t you in one of my classes?”
“Well, yes I was ... I mean I am. That’s sort of what I needed to talk to you about. I stopped going after the second lecture.”
“Why, that’s funny—I thought I’d seen you more than that. I recognize your bangs.”
Cassy blushed. Although she had been busy all day formulating excuses, they evaporated now. Cassy told him simply and truthfully what had happened. There was something so reassuring in his manner that she went into more detail than she had done with anyone, and she finished with a lump in her throat. She took the drop card out of her book bag and placed it on his desk.
Professor Thayer nodded at it, but didn’t seem in any hurry to sign.
“Tell me,” he asked, “how many units are you taking?”
“Fifteen. Besides your class, I mean.”
“That’s quite a load. You also work part-time?”
“Yes sir. At the Meals Facility. And my lab requirement is six hours a week, but I usually spend more time than that.” Cassy didn’t mean to sound abject, but somehow she didn’t feel like holding anything back.
“You must be under great stress. I can see how it might cause, uh, a slip of the kind you describe.” He smiled. “Oh course I’ll be glad to sign your card.” But instead of reaching for it, the professor folded his arms, leaned back in his chair, and began to profess.
“It’s a shame, in a way, that you couldn’t have taken my class. It would have given you some insight into a problem that’s affecting you—and affecting us all, whether we know it or not.
“The course deals with overpopulation. It’s been controversial in the Demography Department, since it probably should be called a sociology or population-ecology course instead; some of my colleagues don’t approve of my taking what amounts to a moral stance, by saying just how much population is too much. But since the class deals specifically with human society, and most of the data are here, I’ve kept it in the department.
“We explore the correlation of increased population density with all the classes of effects—from high rents to disrupted living conditions, stress, violent crime, suicide, el cetera. One of the key factors at work is anomie—the insecure, faceless ‘lonely crowd’ feeling discussed by Durkheim and Riesman. It’s hard to define an emotion like that scientifically, but it’s easy to see its results; they fill the front pages of our newspapers—with gruesome statistics.” Professor Thayer prodded a fat green softcover volume of census figures at the side of his desk, so that it flopped shut of its own weight.
“Of course, when you’re discussing overpopulation, there’s no better example of it than the student body of a large school like Berkeley. In this case, the population pressure is artificial—resulting from the crush of students to a favored institution—but it’s intense enough to develop all the classic effects: high rents, crowded living conditions, the overload of facilities, and above all, stress. An interesting microcosm.” Professor Thayer gazed speculatively at Cassy for a moment, then resumed.
“The intriguing approach is to view all these social problems not just as ill effects, but as attempts by a dynamic system to balance itself. Death controls, in E. C. Festung’s phrase.
“When a population exceeds natural limits, it definitely will be reduced—if not by birth control, then by death controls such as famine and disease. The human species is uniquely fortunate in having the power to choose—though we don’t seem to be using that power.
“Festung identified a wide range of behaviors peculiar to man as death controls: war, terrorism, violent crime, transportation accidents, cult suicides, nuclear ‘events’ ”—the professor drew imaginary brackets around the word with two pairs of fingers—“all the unique disasters we take f
or granted today. He maintains that they all stem from an instinct, inborn in mankind far beneath the level of rational thought, to reduce a population that, unconsciously, we perceive as too large. Like caged birds in the five-and-dime pecking each other to death. In effect, crowding is seen to induce irrational and aggressive behavior. A fascinating theory.” This time his pause was punctuated by the sound of sparrows chirping outside in the quad.
“Unfortunately, it all tends to sound very morbid. Many students can’t work with it—too depressing. They’d rather just shrug it off, at least until it becomes too big to ignore. Like so many contemporary issues, it’s a hard one to face—I’ve seen some fine minds become paralyzed by a sort of ecological despair.” He massaged his chin a moment. “In a way, your little bout of forgetfulness parallels the attitude of all Western society toward the population issue, ever since the time of Malthus. The initial warnings were just too grim, so we thrust it away to the back of our minds. Unfortunately that doesn’t alleviate the problem.”
The professor lapsed into silence and stared out the window for a while, hands folded. Then he bestirred himself and looked at his watch. “Oh my, I see I’ve run on for quite a while. You ended up taking my course anyway—the special condensed version. Hope I didn’t bore you. Or depress you. Here, I’ll sign this.”
In a few moments Cassy was being ushered out the door. She didn’t regret having spent so long with Professor Thayer. He was cute, though long-winded—and a lot of what he said sounded awfully unscientific.
Leaving Dwinelle she headed for the lab. After that, home, to do some serious cramming!
So Dead Week ended, if not quite happily, then at least hurriedly. Although the menace of the phantom class was laid to rest, Cassy knew that the distraction and delay had hurt her study effort—perhaps seriously. So she halved her sleep time and doubled her coffee intake to catch up, and in a while agony faded to mere numbness. Perhaps it didn’t matter anyway—she had always found that final grades bore no recognizable relationship to her effort of understanding.
To complicate matters, there was a flurry of last-minute activity at the lab. An ill-timed biochemical breakthrough had Cassy making special trips around the campus to deliver files and samples when she should have been doing a dozen other things. In the department she sensed excitement and an unspoken pressure to keep the matter quiet—if not permanently, then at least until summer break, when the majority of the students would have gone home and the chance of protest lessened.
On Wednesday the lunch crowd in the Meals Facility was only slightly smaller than usual. A few of the diners moved with the Sanctified air of having finished their final exams; others carried stacks of books on their trays and looked haggard. Cassy stood behind the counter doling out portions of stew, chicken, and enchiladas.
A familiar face appeared in the customer line. “Hello, Profession Thayer,” she said brightly.
“Why, hello, Cassy! Oh, that’s right—you told me you worked here, didn’t you?” The professor put on a playfully pensive look. “Hmmm. I wonder what’s good today.”
“Everyone’s having the Caesar salad,” said Cassy, smiling. “It ought to be good—I helped make it.” She reached for a clean bowl and began to dish up an especially generous helping.
At that moment she noticed the Erlenmayer flask right there before her—from the lab. It was nearly empty of bacterial toxins, type K. It really didn’t look much different from the salad dressing cruet—but that was over on the table by her purse, and it was still full. Again that lightheaded Feeling, of gears slipping somewhere.
Cassy and the professor heard a tray crash and looked out across the expanse of tables. Something was happening. A man near the window lurched, fell across a table, and rolled to the floor. There were violent movements elsewhere in the room, and out on the terrace.
Then the screaming began.
THE SNEERING by Ramsey Campbell
Ramsey Campbell has been a regular in The Year’s Best Horror Stories since the first volume. Since his first book in 1964, a collection of Lovecraftian stories entitled The Inhabitant of the Lake & Less Welcome Tenants, Campbell has developed his own distinctive style of intensely introspective horror fiction. In recent years he has frightened readers with novels (The Face That Must Die, Incarnate, Obsession), short story collections Dark Companions, Cold Print, and as editor of anthologies (Superhorror, New Terrors I and II).
Born in Liverpool on January 4, 1946, Campbell now lives in Merseyside, where he continues to find unsuspected horrors in his native city. Perhaps more than anyone else, Campbell represents the new generation of horror writers who had paid their dues long before the recent boom in the genre’s popularity. Campbell’s latest books include a novel from Macmillan, The Hungry Moon; a collection of erotic horror stories from Scream/Press, Scared Stiff; and a third of an original anthology from Dark Harvest, Night Visions 3. He is currently at work on a new supernatural novel, The Influence.
When they’d come home the house had looked unreal, dwarfed by the stalks of the streetlamps, which were more than twice as tall as any of the houses that were left. Even the pavement outside had shrunk, chopped in half by the widened roadway. Beneath the blazing orange light the house looked like cardboard, a doll’s house; the dark green curtains were black now, as if charred. It didn’t look at all like his pride. “Isn’t it nice and bright,” Emily had said.
Bright! Seen from a quarter of a mile away the lights were ruthlessly dazzling: stark fluorescent stars pinned to the earth, floating in a swath of cold-orange light watery as mist. Outside the house the light was at least as bright as day; it was impossible to look at the searing lamps.
Jack lay in bed. The light had kept him awake again, seeping through the curtains, accumulating thickly in the room. The curtains were open now; he could see the lower stretch of a towering metal stalk, gleaming in the July sunlight. Progress. He let out a short breath, a mirthless comment. Progress was what mattered now, not people.
Not that the lights were the worst. There was the incessant jagged chattering and slow howling of machinery: would they never finish the roadworks? They’d finish a damn sight faster if they spent less time idling, telling vulgar jokes, and drinking tea. And when the men had sneaked off home there was still the traffic, roaring by past midnight, past one o’clock, carrying the racket of passengers, shouting drunkenly and singing—the drivers too, no doubt: they didn’t care, these people. Once or twice he’d leapt out of bed to try to spot the numbers of the cars, but Emily would say, “Oh, leave them. They’re only young people.” Sometimes he thought she must walk about with her eyes shut.
The machinery was silent. It was Sunday. The day of rest, or so he’d been brought up to believe. But all it meant now was an early start for the cars, gathering speed on the half-mile approach to the motorway: cars packed with ignorant parents and their ill-spoken children, hordes of them from the nearby council estate. At least they would be dropping their litter in the country, instead of outside his house.
He could hear them now, the cars, the constant whirring, racing past only to make way for more. They sounded as if they were in the house. Why couldn’t he hear Emily? She’d got up while he was asleep, tired out by wakefulness. Was she making him a pot of tea? It seemed odd that he couldn’t hear her.
Still, it was a wonder he could hear anything over the unmannerly din of traffic. The noise had never been so loud before; it filled the house. Suddenly, ominously, he realized why. The front door was open.
Struggling into his dressing-gown, he hurried to the window. Emily was standing outside the shop across the road, peering through the speckled window. She had forgotten it was Sunday.
Well, that was nothing to worry about. Anyone could forget what day it was, with all this noise. It didn’t sound like Sunday. He’s best go and meet Emily. It was dim in the pedestrian subway, her walk wasn’t always steady now; she might fall. Besides, one never knew what hooligans might be lurking down there.
As he emerged he heard a man say, “Look at that stupid old cow.”
Two men were standing outside his gate. From the man’s coarse speech he could tell they were from the estate. They were staring across the road at Emily, almost blocking his view of her. She stood at the edge of the pavement, at a break in the temporary metal fence, waiting for a chance to cross. Her mind was wandering again.
He shoved the men aside. “Who are you frigging pushing?” demanded the one who’d spoken—but Jack was standing on tiptoe at the edge of the traffic, shouting, “Emily! Slay there! I’m coming! Emily!”
She couldn’t hear him. The traffic whipped his words away, repeatedly shuttered him off from her. She stood, peering through a mist that stank of petrol, she made timid advances at gaps in the traffic. She was wearing her blue leaf-patterned dress; gusts from passing cars plucked at it. In her fluttering dress she looked frail as a gray-haired child.
“Stay there, Emily!” He ran to the subway. Outside his gate the two men gaped after him. He clattered down the steps and plunged into the tunnel. The darkness blinded him for a moment, gleaming darkly with graffiti; the chill of the tiled passage touched him. He hurried up the steps on the far side, grabbing the metal rail to quicken his climb. But it was too late. Emily had crossed to the middle of the roadway.
Calling her now would confuse her. There was a lull in the traffic, but she stood on the long concrete island, regaining her breath. Cross now! he willed her desperately. The two men were making to step onto the road. They were going to help the stupid old cow, were they? He ran to the gap in the metal fence. She didn’t need them.
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