The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 22

by Stephen Jones

  Although she didn’t linger in the kitchen, she couldn’t leave her memories behind. How many children had her grandmother lost that she’d been so afraid of losing any more? By pestering her mother Jacqueline had learned they’d been stillborn, which had reminded her how often her grandmother told her to keep still. More than once today Jacqueline had refrained from saying that to the twins and to Brian in particular. Their clamour seemed to fill the hall and resonate all the way up the house, so that she could have thought the reverberations were shaking the mirrors, disturbing the suspended mass of darkness like a web in which a spider had come to life. “Can we go up to the top now?” Brian said.

  “Please don’t,” Jacqueline called.

  It took Cynthia’s stare to establish that the boy hadn’t been asking Jacqueline. “Why can’t we?” Karen protested, and Valerie contributed “We only want to see.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Cynthia said. “Just wait till we’re all up there.”

  Before tramping into the nearest bedroom she gave her sister one more look, and Jacqueline felt as blameworthy as their grandmother used to make her feel. Why couldn’t she watch over the children from the hall? She tilted her head back on her shaky neck to gaze up the stairwell. Sometimes her grandfather would raise his eyes ceilingwards as his wife found yet another reason to rebuke Jacqueline, only for the woman to say “If you look like that you’ll see where you’re going.” Presumably she’d meant Heaven, and perhaps she was there now, if there was such a place. Jacqueline imagined her sailing upwards like a husk on a wind; she’d already seemed withered all those years ago, and not just physically either. Was that why Jacqueline had thought the stillbirths must be shrivelled too? They would have ended up like that, but she needn’t think about it now, if ever. She glanced towards the children and saw movement above them.

  She must have seen the shadows of the treetops – thin shapes that appeared to start out of the corners under the roof before darting back into the gloom. As she tried to grasp how those shadows could reach so far beyond the confines of the skylight, Cynthia peered out of the nearest bedroom. “Jackie, aren’t you coming to look?”

  Jacqueline couldn’t think for all the noise. “If you three will give us some peace for a while,” she said louder than she liked. “And stay with us. We don’t want you going anywhere that isn’t safe.”

  “You heard your aunt,” Cynthia said, sounding unnecessarily like a resentful child.

  As Brian trudged after the twins to follow Cynthia into her grandmother’s bedroom Jacqueline remembered never being let in there. Later her parents had made it their room – had tried, at any rate. While they’d doubled the size of the bed, the rest of the furniture was still her grandmother’s, and she could have fancied that all the swarthy wood was helping the room glower at the intrusion. She couldn’t imagine her parents sharing a bed there, let alone performing any activity in it, but she didn’t want to think about such things at all. “Not for me,” she said and made for the next room.

  Not much had changed since it had been her grandfather’s, which meant it still seemed to belong to his wife. It felt like her disapproval rendered solid by not just the narrow single bed but the rest of the dark furniture that duplicated hers, having been her choice. She’d disapproved of almost anything related to Jacqueline, not least her husband playing with their granddaughter. Jacqueline avoided glancing up at any restlessness under the roof while she crossed the landing to the other front bedroom. As she gazed at the two single beds that remained since the cot had been disposed of, the children ran to cluster around her in the doorway. “This was your room, wasn’t it?” Valerie said.

  “Yours and our grandma’s,” Karen amended.

  “No,” Jacqueline said, “it was hers and our mother’s and father’s.”

  In fact she hadn’t been sent to the top floor until Cynthia was born. Their grandfather had told her she was going to stay with the angels, though his wife frowned at the idea. Jacqueline would have found it more appealing if she hadn’t already been led to believe that all the stillbirths were living with the angels. She hardly knew why she was continuing to explore the house. Though the cast-iron bath had been replaced by a fibreglass tub as blue as the toilet and sink, she still remembered flinching from the chilly metal. After Cynthia’s birth their grandmother had taken over bathing Jacqueline, scrubbing her with such relentless harshness that it had felt like a penance. When it was over at last, her grandfather would do his best to raise her spirits. “Now you’re clean enough for the angels,” he would say and throw her up in the air.

  “If you’re good the angels will catch you” – but of course he did, which had always made her wonder what would happen to her if she wasn’t good enough. She’d seemed to glimpse that thought in her grandmother’s eyes, or had it been a wish? What would have caught her if she’d failed to live up to requirements? As she tried to forget the conclusion she’d reached Brian said “Where did they put you, then?”

  “They kept me right up at the top.”

  “Can we see?”

  “Yes, let’s,” said Valerie, and Karen ran after him as well.

  Jacqueline was opening her mouth to delay them when Cynthia said “You’ll be going up there now, won’t you? You can keep an eye on them.”

  It was a rebuke for not helping enough with the children, or for interfering too much, or perhaps for Jacqueline’s growing nervousness. Anger at her childish fancies sent her stumping halfway up the topmost flight of stairs before she faltered. Clouds had gathered like a lifetime’s worth of dust above the skylight, and perhaps that was why the top floor seemed to darken as she climbed towards it, so that all the corners were even harder to distinguish – she could almost have thought the mass of dimness was solidifying. “Where were you, auntie?” Karen said.

  “In there,” said Jacqueline and hurried to join them outside the nearest room.

  It wasn’t as vast as she remembered, though certainly large enough to daunt a small child. The ceiling stooped to the front wall, squashing the window, from which the shadows of the poplars seemed to creep up the gloomy incline to acquire more substance under the roof at the back of the room. The grimy window smudged the premature twilight, which had very little to illuminate, since the room was bare of furniture and even of a carpet. “Did you have to sleep on the floor?” Valerie said. “Were you very bad?”

  “Of course not,” Jacqueline declared. It felt as if her memories had been thrown out – as if she hadn’t experienced them – but she knew better. She’d lain on the cramped bed hemmed in by dour furniture and cut off from everyone else in the house by the dark that occupied the stairs. She would have prayed if that mightn’t have roused what she dreaded. If the babies were with the angels, mustn’t that imply they weren’t angels themselves? Being stillbirths needn’t mean they would keep still – Jacqueline never could when she was told. Suppose they were what caught you if you weren’t good? She’d felt as if she had been sent away from her family for bad behaviour. All too soon she’d heard noises that suggested tiny withered limbs were stirring, and glimpsed movements in the highest corners of the room.

  She must have been hearing the poplars and seeing their shadows. As she turned away from the emptied bedroom she caught sight of the room opposite, which was full of items covered with dustsheets. Had she ever known what the sheets concealed? She’d imagined they hid some secret that children weren’t supposed to learn, but they’d also reminded her of enormous masses of cobweb. She could have thought the denizens of the webs were liable to crawl out of the dimness, and she was absurdly relieved to see Cynthia coming upstairs. “I’ll leave you to it,” Jacqueline said. “I’ll be waiting down below.”

  It wasn’t only the top floor she wanted to leave behind. She’d remembered what she’d once done to her sister. The war had been over at last, and she’d been trusted to look after Cynthia while the adults planned the future. The sisters had only been allowed to play with their toys in the hall, wh
ere Jacqueline had done her best to distract the toddler from straying into any of the rooms they weren’t supposed to enter by themselves – in fact, every room. At last she’d grown impatient with her sister’s mischief, and in a wicked moment she’d wondered what would catch Cynthia if she tossed her high. As she’d thrown her sister into the air with all her strength she’d realised that she didn’t want to know, certainly not at Cynthia’s expense – as she’d seen dwarfish shrivelled figures darting out of every corner in the dark above the stairwell and scuttling down to seize their prize. They’d come head first, so that she’d seen their bald scalps wrinkled like walnuts before she glimpsed their hungry withered faces. Then Cynthia had fallen back into her arms, though Jacqueline had barely managed to keep hold of her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she’d hugged her sister until she’d felt able to risk seeing they were alone in the vault of the hall.

  There was no use telling herself that she’d taken back her unforgivable wish. She might have injured the toddler even by catching her – she might have broken her frail neck. She ought to have known that, and perhaps she had. Being expected to behave badly had made her act that way, but she felt as if all the nightmares that were stored in the house had festered and gained strength over the years. When she reached the foot of the stairs at last she carried on out of the house.

  The poplars stooped to greet her with a wordless murmur. A wind was rising under the sunless sky. It was gentle on her face – it seemed to promise tenderness she couldn’t recall having experienced, certainly not once Cynthia was born. Perhaps it could soothe away her memories, and she was raising her face to it when Brian appeared in the porch. “What are you doing, auntie?”

  “Just being by myself.”

  She thought that was pointed enough until he skipped out of the house. “Is it time now?”

  Why couldn’t Cynthia have kept him with her? No doubt she thought it was Jacqueline’s turn. “Time for what?” Jacqueline couldn’t avoid asking.

  “You said you’d give me a throw.”

  She’d said she wouldn’t then, not that she would sometime. Just the same, perhaps she could. It might be a way of leaving the house behind and all it represented to her. It would prove she deserved to be trusted with him, as she ought not to have been trusted with little Cynthia. “Come on then,” she said.

  As soon as she held out her arms he ran and leapt into them. “Careful,” she gasped, laughing as she recovered her balance. “Are you ready?” she said and threw the small body into the air.

  She was surprised how light he was, or how much strength she had at her disposal. He came down giggling, and she caught him. “Again,” he cried.

  “Just once more,” Jacqueline said. She threw him higher this time, and he giggled louder. Cynthia often said that children kept you young, and Jacqueline thought it was true after all. Brian fell into her arms and she hugged him. “Again,” he could hardly beg for giggling.

  “Now what did I just say?” Nevertheless she threw him so high that her arms trembled with the effort, and the poplars nodded as if they were approving her accomplishment. She clutched at Brian as he came down with an impact that made her shoulders ache. “Higher,” he pleaded almost incoherently. “Higher.”

  “This really is the last time, Brian.” She crouched as if the stooping poplars had pushed her down. Tensing her whole body, she reared up to fling him into the pendulous gloom with all her strength.

  For a moment she thought only the wind was reaching for him as it bowed the trees and dislodged objects from the foliage – leaves that rustled, twigs that scraped and rattled. But the thin shapes weren’t falling, they were scurrying head first down the tree-trunks at a speed that seemed to leave time behind. Some of them had no shape they could have lived with, and some might never have had any skin. She saw their shrivelled eyes glimmer eagerly and their toothless mouths gape with an identical infantile hunger. Their combined weight bowed the lowest branches while they extended arms like withered sticks to snatch the child.

  In that helpless instant Jacqueline was overwhelmed by a feeling she would never have admitted – a rush of childish glee, of utter irresponsibility. For a moment she was no longer a nurse, not even a retired one as old as some of her patients had been. She shouldn’t have put Brian at risk, but now he was beyond saving. Then he fell out of the dark beneath the poplars, in which there was no longer any sign of life, and she made a grab at him. The strength had left her arms, and he struck the hard earth with a thud that put her in mind of the fall of a lid.

  “Brian?” she said and bent groaning to him. “Brian,” she repeated, apparently loud enough to be audible all the way up the house. She heard her old window rumble open, and Cynthia’s cry: “What have you done now?” She heard footsteps thunder down the stairs, and turned away from the small still body beneath the uninhabited trees as her sister dashed out of the porch. Jacqueline had just one thought, but surely it must make a difference. “Nothing caught him,” she said.

  RICHARD L. TIERNEY

  Autumn Chill

  RICHARD L. TIERNEY LIVES in his house, “The Hermitage”, in Mason City, Iowa. He has a degree in entomology from Iowa State University and worked with the US Forestry Service for many years. An editor, poet and critic, his seminal essay “The Derleth Mythos” is considered a cornerstone of modern Lovecraftian criticism.

  A great admirer of the writings of Robert E. Howard, Tierney edited Tigers of the Sea and Hawks of Outremer for publisher Donald M. Grant, completing a few unfinished tales in the process.

  His novels include The Winds of Zar, the “Bran Mak Morn” pastiche For the Witch of the Mists (with David C. Smith), The House of the Toad, The Scroll of Thoth: Simon Magus and the Great Old Ones, The Gardens of Lucullus (with Glenn Rahman), The Drums of Chaos, and six “Red Sonja” books (1981–83), also in collaboration with Smith.

  Inspired by the work of Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, Donald Wandrei, Robert E. Howard and Frank Belknap Long, Tierney’s poetry has been collected in Dreams and Damnations, The Doom Prophet and One Other, the Arkham House volume of Collected Poems, Nightmares and Visions, The Blob That Gobbled Abdul and Other Poems and Songs and Savage Menace and Other Poems of Horror.

  S.T. Joshi has described Tierney as “one of the leading weird poets of his generation.”

  HOWDY, YOUNG FELLOW! WHAT brings you down here

  To this old graveyard in the piney woods?

  Not many folks come wandering this way.

  Lost, you say? Well, I figured you must be.

  This family plot of mine’s a right far piece

  From any town. But, don’t you worry none,

  Just keep on this dirt road ’bout two miles more

  And it’ll bring ye to the Aylesbury Pike.

  But why not stop and rest a spell, young sir?

  The evening’s fair and clear, and I don’t get

  Much chance to chat and hear the outside news

  From folks like you just passing through.

  Yes, yes, I know you can’t stay long,

  But bear with me a bit.

  I’m a mite lonely here since brother Ned,

  My only close kin, recently passed away.

  Come on, I’d like to show ye ’round this place,

  If you can spare some minutes from your trip.

  Good! I won’t keep ye long. Come, follow me.

  The evening’s mild and mellow – aye, and look!

  There’s bright Orion climbing up the sky.

  See how his jewelled sword-belt gleams!

  And here comes Sirius, nipping at his heels!

  Just hear that night-breeze starting up to whisper—

  Listen to how it makes the dry leaves rattle

  Like skeleton spiders!

  A sad and spooky time o’ day it is,

  The sun gone down behind the piney ridge,

  The autumn afterglow a-fading out.

  But, look, here’s what I wanted you to see—

  This anci
ent graveyard nestled ’midst the trees.

  It’s old, young sir, older than this Republic,

  And ’most all of my kin lie buried here.

  Look how those headstones hump up from the moss

  With skulls and crossbones carved upon their faces.

  They’re centuries old, some of ‘em.

  But, see that fresh-dug mound and wooden cross?

  Poor Ned was buried there a week ago.

  Ain’t even got a proper headstone yet.

  Ned, he was sort of odd and troublesome,

  You know, like some of closest kinfolk are,

  But I was mighty heartstruck when he up

  And died so sudden . . . But, my God! What’s that?

  You seen it too, young fellow, didn’t you?

  Looked like a ’possum running fast, you say?

  Well, I allow you may be right.

  Just let me catch my breath a bit. ’Twas quite

  A shock to see that critter scuttling from

  Ned’s grave. You’re right, it must have been a ’possum . . .

  Shaking, you say? Well, yes, I guess I am.

  Gave me a start, that critter did, and I’ve

  Been brooding some about poor brother Ned.

  He’d read these books Great-grandpa’d handed down

  Full of strange things most folks don’t know about.

  Our family goes a long way back, y’know,

  And some of them has had the wisdom-gift.

  Ned, now, he had it too, I guess, ’cause soon

  After he’d studied them old books awhile

  The folks he didn’t like took sick and died,

  Like cousin Henry and old Auntie Liz,

  And when he started looking dark at me

  I took to sleeping with an axe at hand.

  They say a grave can’t keep a sorcerer,

  But surely if his head’s been split in half