"But what did it?" asked Katie. "We didn't do it, and Nigel couldn't have done it himself."
Mark frowned down at the yellow swirly carpet. He could make out a blotchy trail of footprints leading from the side of the couch to the center of the room. He thought at first that they must be Nigel's, but on closer examination they seemed to be far too small, and there was no blood on Nigel's socks. Close to the coffee-table the footprints formed a pattern like a huge, petal-shedding rose, and then, much fainter, they made their way toward the mirror. Where they stopped.
"Look," he said. "What do you make of that?"
Katie approached the mirror and peered into the shiny circle that she had cleaned yesterday evening. "It's almost as if…no."
"It's almost as if what?"
"It's almost as if somebody killed Nigel and then walked straight into the mirror."
"That's insane. People can't walk into mirrors."
"But these footprints…they don't go anywhere else."
"It's impossible. Whoever it was, they must have done it to trick us."
They both looked up at the face of Lamia. She looked back at them, secret and serene. Her smile seemed to say, wouldn't you like to know?
"They built a tower, didn't they?" said Katie. She was trembling with shock. "They built a tower for the express purpose of keeping the Lady of Shalott locked up. If she was Lamia, then they locked her up because she seduced men and drank their blood."
"Katie, for Christ's sake. That was seven hundred years ago. That's if it really happened at all."
Katie pointed to Nigel's body on the couch. "Nigel's dead, Mark! That really happened! But nobody could have entered this room last night, could they? Not without breaking the door down and waking us up. Nobody could have entered this room unless they stepped right out of this mirror!"
"So what do you suggest? When we call the police?"
"We have to tell them!"
"Oh, yes? And is this what we tell them? 'Well, officer, it was like this. We took a thirteenth-century mirror that didn't belong to us and The Lady of Shalott came out of it in the middle of the night and tore Nigel's throat out?' They'll send us to Broadmoor, Katie! They'll put us in the funny farm for life!"
"Mark, listen, this is real."
"It's only a story, Katie. It's only a legend."
"But think of the poem, The Lady of Shalott. Think of what it says. 'Moving thro' a mirror clear, that hangs before her all the year, shadows of the world appear.' Don't you get it? Tennyson specifically wrote through a mirror, not in it. The Lady of Shalott wasn't looking at her mirror, she was inside it, looking out!"
"This gets better."
"But it all fits together. She was Lamia. A blood-sucker, a vampire! Like all vampires, she could only come out at night. But she didn't hide inside a coffin all day…she hid inside a mirror! Daylight can't penetrate a mirror, any more than it can penetrate a closed coffin!"
"I don't know much about vampires, Katie, but I do know that you can't see them in mirrors."
"Of course not. And this is the reason why! Lamia and her reflection are one and the same. When she steps out of the mirror, she's no longer inside it, so she doesn't appear to have a reflection. And the curse on her must be that she can only come out of the mirror at night, like all vampires."
"Katie, for Christ's sake…you're getting completely carried away."
"But it's the only answer that makes any sense! Why did they lock up The Lady of Shalott on an island, in a stream? Because vampires can't cross running water. Why did they carve a crucifix and a skull on the stones outside? The words said, God save us from the pestilence within these walls. They didn't mean the Black Death…they meant her! The Lady of Shalott, Lamia, she was the pestilence!"
Mark sat down. He looked at Nigel and then he looked away again. He had never seen a dead body before, but the dead were so totally dead that you could quickly lose interest in them after a while. They didn't talk. They didn't even breathe. He could understand why morticians were so blasé.
"So?" he asked Katie, at last. "What do you think we ought to do?"
"Let's draw the curtains," she said. "Let's shut out all the daylight. If you sit here, perhaps she'll be tempted to come out again. After all, she's been seven hundred years without fresh blood, hasn't she? She must be thirsty. "
Mark stared at her. "You're having a laugh, aren't you? You want me to sit here in the dark, hoping that some mythical woman is going to step out of a dirty old mirror and try to suck all the blood out of me?"
He was trying to show Katie that he wasn't afraid, and that her vampire idea was nonsense, but all the time Nigel was lying on the couch, silently shouting at the ceiling. And there was so much blood, and so many footprints. What else could have happened in this room last night?
Katie said, "It's up to you. If you think I'm being ridiculous, let's forget it. Let's call the police and tell them exactly what happened. I'm sure that forensics will prove that we didn't kill him."
"I wouldn't count on it, myself."
Mark stood up again and went over to the mirror. He peered into the polished circle, but all he could see was his own face, dimly haloed.
"All right, then," he said. "Let's give it a try, just to put your mind at rest. Then we call the police."
Katie drew the brown velvet curtains and tucked them in at the bottom to keep out the tiniest chink of daylight. It was well past eight o'clock now, but it was still pouring with rain outside and the morning was so gloomy that she need hardly have bothered. Mark pulled one of the armchairs up in front of the mirror and sat facing it.
"I feel like one of those goats they tie up, to catch tigers."
"Well, I wouldn't worry. I'm probably wrong."
Mark took out a crumpled Kleenex and blew his nose, and then sniffed. "Phwoaff!" he protested. "Nigel's smelling already. Rotten chicken, or what?"
"That's the blood," said Katie. Adding, after a moment, "My uncle used to be a butcher. He always said that bad blood is the worst smell in the world."
They sat in silence for a while. The smell of blood seemed to be growing thicker, and riper, and it was all Mark could do not to gag. His throat was dry, too, and he wished he had drunk some orange juice before starting this vigil.
"You couldn't fetch me a drink, could you?" he asked Katie.
"Ssh," said Katie. "I think I can see something."
"What? Where?"
"Look at the mirror, in the middle. Like a very faint light."
Mark stared toward the mirror in the darkness. At first he couldn't see anything but overwhelming blackness. But then he saw a flicker, like somebody waving a white scarf, and then another.
Very gradually, a face began to appear in the polished circle. Mark felt a slow crawling sensation down his back, and his lower jaw began to judder so much that he had to clench his teeth to stop it. The face was pale and bland but strangely beautiful, and it was staring straight at him, unblinking, and smiling. It looked more like the face of a marble statue than a human being. Mark tried to look away, but he couldn't. Every time he turned his head toward Katie he was compelled to turn back again.
The darkened living room seemed to grow even more airless and suffocating, and when he said, "Katie…can you see what I see?" his voice sounded muffled, as if he had a pillow over his face.
Soundlessly, the pale woman took one step out of the surface of the mirror. She was naked, and her skin was the color of the moon. The black tarnish clung to her for a moment, like oily cobwebs, but as she took another step forward they slid away from her, leaving her luminous and pristine.
Mark could do nothing but stare at her. She came closer and closer, until he could have reached up and touched her. She had a high forehead, and her hair was braided in strange, elaborate loops. She had no eyebrows, which made her face expressionless. But her eyes were extraordinary. Her eyes were like looking at death.
She raised her right hand and lightly kissed her fingertips. He could feel her aur
a, both electrical and freezing cold, as if somebody had left a fridge door wide open. She whispered something, but it sounded more French than English—very soft and elided—and he could only understand a few words of it.
"My sweet love," she said. "Come to me, give me your very life."
There were dried runnels of blood on her breasts and down her slightly-bulging stomach, and down her thighs. Her feet were spattered in blood, too. Mark looked up at her, and he couldn't think what to say or what to do. He felt as if all of the energy had drained out of him, and he couldn't even speak.
We all have to die one day, he thought. But to die now, today, in this naked woman's arms…what an adventure that would be.
"Mark!" shouted Katie. "Grab her, Mark! Hold on to her!"
The woman twisted around and hissed at Katie, as furiously as a snake. Mark heaved himself out of his chair and tried to seize the woman's arm, but she was cold and slippery, like half-melted ice, and her wrist slithered out of his grasp.
"Now, Katie!" he yelled at her.
Katie threw herself at the curtains, and dragged them down, the curtain-hooks popping like firecrackers. The woman went for her, and she had almost reached the window when the last curtain-hook popped and the living room was drowned with gray, drained daylight. The woman whipped around again and stared at Mark, and the expression on her face almost stopped his heart.
"Of all men," she whispered. "You have been the most faithless, and you will be punished."
Katie was on her knees, struggling to free herself from the curtains. The woman seized Katie's curls, lifted her up, and bit into her neck with an audible crunch. Katie didn't even scream. She stared at Mark in mute desperation and fell sideways onto the carpet, with blood jetting out of her neck and spraying across the furniture.
The woman came slowly toward him, and Mark took one step back, and then another, shifting the armchair so that it stood between them. But she stopped. Her skin was already shining, as if it were melting, and she closed her eyes. Mark waited, holding his breath. At the same time, Katie was convulsing on the floor, one foot jerking against the leg of the coffee-table, so that the empty beer-cans rattled together.
The woman opened her eyes, and gave Mark one last unreadable look. Then she turned back toward the mirror. She took three paces, and it swallowed her, like an oil-streaked pool of water.
Mark waited and waited, not moving. Outside the window, the rain began to clear, and he heard the whine of a milk-float going past.
After a while, he sat down. He thought of calling the police, but what could he tell them? Then he thought of tying the bodies to the mirror, and dropping them into a rhyne, where they would never be found. But the police would come anyway, wouldn't they, asking questions?
The day slowly went by. Just after two o'clock the clouds cleared for a moment, and the naked cherry tree in the back garden sparkled with sunlight. At half-past three a loud clatter in the hallway made him jump, but it was only an old woman with a shopping-trolley pushing a copy of the Wincanton Advertiser through the letterbox.
And so the darkness gradually gathered, and Mark sat in his armchair in front of the mirror, waiting.
"'I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott."
About Graham Masterton
Graham Masterton has published over one hundred novels, including thrillers, horror novels, disaster epics, and sweeping historical romances.
He was editor of the British edition of Penthouse magazine before writing his debut horror novel The Manitou in 1975, which was subsequently filmed with Tony Curtis, Susan Strasberg, Burgess Meredith and Stella Stevens.
One of his best sellers, Blind Panic, was published by Leisure Books in January 2010, and tells of a final devastating conflict between the characters that first appeared in The Manitou—Harry Erskine the phony mystic and Misquamacus, the Native American wonder-worker.
After the initial success of The Manitou, Graham continued to write horror novels and supernatural thrillers, for which he has won international acclaim, especially in Poland, France, Germany, Greece and Australia.
His historical romances Rich (Simon & Schuster) and Maiden Voyage (St. Martins) both featured in The New York Times Bestseller List. He has twice been awarded a Special Edgar by Mystery Writers of America (for Charnel House, and more recently Trauma, which was also named by Publishers Weekly as one of the hundred best novels of the year.)
He has won numerous other awards, including two Silver Medals from the West Coast Review of Books, a tombstone award from the Horror Writers Network, another gravestone from the International Horror Writers Guild, and was the first non-French winner of the prestigious Prix Julia Verlanger for bestselling horror novel. The Chosen Child (set in Poland) was nominated best horror novel of the year by the British Fantasy Society.
Several of Graham's short stories have been adapted for TV, including three for Tony Scott's Hunger series. Jason Scott Lee starred in the Stoker-nominated Secret Shih-Tan.
Apart from continuing with some of most popular horror series, Graham is now writing novels that have some suggestion of a supernatural element in them, but are intended to reach a wider market than genre horror.
Trauma (Penguin) told the story of a crime-scene cleaner whose stressful experiences made her gradually believe that a homicidal Mexican demon possessed the murder victims whose homes she had to sanitize. (This novel was optioned for a year by Jonathan Mostow.)
Unspeakable (Pocket Books) was about a children's welfare officer, a deaf lip-reader, who became convinced that she had been cursed by the Native American father of one of the children she had rescued. (This novel was optioned for two years by La Chauve Souris in Paris.)
And then, of course, is Graham's seventh Jim Rook novel Demon's Door, recently published in December 2010.
http://www.grahammasterton.co.uk
Deviant Queen of Clubs
Felicia Olin
Of What Was Everything
Elizabeth Prasse
WANDERING DANIEL
by Jagjiwan Sohal
Daniel feebly dragged the narrow box through the heavy black sand. It was another dusty night, the moon long concealed by a thick cloud of ash and the stars peeking out here and there. Daniel had no need for light, though. His heightened senses told him where he was and how long it would take to get to his destination. Not that he had anything or anyone waiting for him.
The box was pulled by rusty chains wrapped around Daniel's once-meaty forearms. Lacquered and ornamental, it once housed a famous philanthropist, but was now Daniel's constant companion, his only refuge from the scorched world around him. He thought of naming it, but that would be silly. Why would anyone name a coffin?
Daniel stopped, the sweat cascading down the back of his torn shirt. He hated feeling so soiled, but the heat caused perpetual sweating. He took off his cloak and placed it in the box, wondering why he put the thick wool article on in the first place. He shrugged. Maybe he was just pining for the good ol' days.
He sat on the box, ruminating on this thought. He looked around the desert, remembering how easy it used to be to travel it. Not too long ago, he could fly it in an hour or so, soaring on the wind, back when there was a wind to soar on. Or even blast through on the hot pavement road in his old vintage convertible, his golden locks blowing as the speedometer begged for mercy. What was the make of that car, Daniel wondered. Was it a Ford? Maybe a Japanese model? He honestly couldn't remember.
He stretched, his muscles exhausted. He never used to feel so weak, so foul, so empty. It had been months since he last fed and he remembered how painful the hunger was that time, a stabbing in his guts that only subsided when his belly was full. Nowadays, the hunger was barely noticeable, the agonizing pangs almost forgotten. How much longer can I go without feeding? Daniel wondered. Probably best not to think about it.
He grasped the chains again, aware that the city was not too far off. He looked to the sky and saw that the ash was subsiding and the sun was
beginning to peek through. With the ozone layer completely decimated, the sun's ultraviolet beams were more dangerous than ever. Already Daniel could see the desert coming alive with flame and soon, he would be close to disintegration. Nevertheless, he smiled at the danger and even dared to hold out his arm against the sun's rays. It made his skin sizzle and he was almost grateful, as this little risk broke up the monotony of a dull night.
He quickly shed his clothes, opened the box and hopped in. He would be safe in here, the coffin fireproof, although the heat still caused him to sweat. It would cool down soon, though, and then he could sleep.
These few hours before the sun changed were often the most boring. A few months ago, Daniel would spend the time planning for the future, but now every day was the same, wandering the land and dragging the box behind him. Instead, he would try to remember how things used to be. It was heady work as nostalgia was a great enemy for survivors.
Daniel remembered that last evening. It had been a cool night, a welcome change from a relentless summer. He had been trying to sleep in his quaint suburban home, his old coffin far more spacious than this new box, and it had been lined with exquisite cottons imported from the Punjab. Of course, living in the suburbs had meant noise as the incessant hum of air conditioners and growls of lawnmowers often resulted in a fitful slumber. However, the suburbs had also provided a wonderful hunting ground, and that outweighed everything else.
On The Last Night, Daniel had decided to take a stroll in the park, knowing that supple young teenagers often congregated there to partake in a vice or two. He dressed well for the occasion (as he was prone to do) and he had liked the way designer labels like Gucci and Armani often adorned his slender frame. He knew he had looked damned good on The Last Night, despite not being able to see his reflection to verify this. Of course, he was a bit out of place in suburbia, where rubber flip flops, torn jeans and cheap polo shirts were considered high fashion, but Daniel didn't care. No one really noticed him anyway since he only came out at night.
What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine Page 9