Year's Best Hardcore Horror Volume 1

by Jeff Strand

  "Is it my face, Eleanor? Is that apple supposed to be me?"

  Eleanor shook her head and stomped a foot. She poked Stuart's cheek, then ran her fingers across the lines of her mask.

  "Eleanor." The word came out as a plea—not to ask the question she had asked too many times before, each time causing Stuart more pain than the last. Some questions were better left unanswered. Others, like this one, couldn't be answered.

  She wanted to know why he had a face and she didn't.

  His voice fell to a hush. "We've been through this, dear." As a child she had spent hours studying his face, comparing it to her own. She wanted to know why he had a voice and she could only sputter. Ears, nose, eyes: all had been matters that spurred her curiosity. But the answers Stuart had given never seemed to satisfy her.

  How does she know that she is the oddity? Maybe I should never have given her the masks.

  Eleanor grabbed her mask beneath the chin. The action startled Stuart from his memories and sent his heart racing.

  "Leave it on!" he shouted more sternly than he had intended. Eleanor slid her fingers beneath the mask, groping at the disfigurement behind it. Again, she went to take it off.

  "Please," Stuart said, grabbing her wrists. "You are stunning with your happy face on. I want to see you happy, always." He faked a smile, not sure if he was trying to reassure himself or the other who could not see it.

  Eleanor twisted from his grip, but made no further attempt to remove the mask. A sound akin to a growl emitted from her throat. She pushed past Stuart and stamped her way to the table beside her bedroom door. With her back to him, she ripped the mask from her face and threw it against the wall. She replaced it with her sad face.

  "Eleanor, I—"

  She stormed past him again, got into her bed and hid beneath the covers, cradling her knees. He walked up to her bed and placed his hand on her back, trying to soothe her. She scooted away.

  Stuart winced. A hollow pain stabbed at his stomach. His sadness swallowed him, commanded him to retreat. "I will leave you alone then." His voice fell quiet. "I'm sorry, Eleanor."

  He turned and plodded out of her room. His head hanging low, he headed down to the sanctuary where he would pray for God to deliver her the peace he could not.

  •

  THE MOON was descending when Stuart finally made his way back upstairs to his room. He stopped at Eleanor's door to check in on her. Her door was open a crack. Had he left it that way earlier? He couldn't recall. Eleanor never left her room, so it seemed the most likely conclusion.

  A low moaning came from inside the room. I hope she hasn't injured herself. He moved in closer. He would just have a peek to make sure she was okay.

  His eyes widened as he spotted Eleanor atop her bed. Her nightgown circled her waist, everything beneath it exposed. She writhed as if she were feverish, her hand working between her legs with dizzying speed as her moaning intensified.

  Stuart began to sweat. His mouth filled with saliva, and he choked it down. He felt his penis stiffening before his mind could register the error in its ways. As he leaned closer, the floorboard creaked with his shifting weight.

  All went quiet inside Eleanor's room. Ashamed, he stepped back, and the floor creaked again. He froze, afraid to make even the slightest movement that would alert her to his peeping, his degradation.

  After a moment, the moaning resumed. The sin took hold of him. Stuart wanted to walk away but instead found himself leaning in for a second look. He peeked through the crack, unable to resist the perversion.

  He could see Eleanor's bed, but she wasn't in it. "Where are you?" he mouthed, barely aware that his hand was rubbing the front of his slacks.

  He shrieked when Eleanor sprang out of the darkness, her sad face appearing in the opening inches from his. He fell backward onto his buttocks. She stared at him with false eyes before slamming the door shut.

  His face burned with humiliation. Stuart gathered himself and wormed his way into his room. He crawled into bed and laid in silence until his heart and breathing slowed. How he hated himself.

  He closed his eyes, begging sleep to come. When at last it did, his dreams were filled with her.

  •

  STUART LURCHED up in bed, sweating profusely. His sheets and pillow were damp. His eyes began to focus. Eleanor's happy mask stared him in the face. Her hand was stroking his penis.

  "Eleanor, you must return to bed," he squeaked. "This instant!"

  Eleanor didn't listen. She pushed his shoulders down against the mattress, then returned to his pelvis. Stuart swelled inside her hands—hands that shouldn't have been capable of the sins they were committing, that shouldn't have had the skill they seemed to possess. Hands he lacked the strength to remove. They guided his penis inside her.

  "Forgive me," Stuart cried and fell victim to her rapture, submitted to his lust.

  He climaxed soon after. Eleanor's head rolled back. Her body glistened with sweat in the starlight pouring in through the window. A strange cooing resonated from the hole in her throat as she swayed in time to music only she could hear.

  Stuart's pubis and inner thighs were drenched with what he assumed to have been the results of her orgasm. He had never had sex before, but he didn't think it was supposed to be that wet. Concern stifled the guilt blossoming in his mind. For a moment, his thoughts were only on the wetness. He reached between his legs. The liquid he found there was thick and warm.

  It felt like blood.

  He scrambled out from beneath Eleanor and kicked the sheets away from him. Huddled against his headboard, he inspected his upper legs and saw that they were stained dark. He checked for wounds, but saw none. The blood wasn't his.

  Eleanor moved closer. She reached for his flaccid penis, perhaps not understanding why they had stopped. Despite it all, despite the fact that he had just desecrated every vow he held sacred—the vows of his church, the vows of his morality, the vows of a father—a part of Stuart craved more. He felt himself becoming aroused again. He pushed Eleanor away.

  Perhaps too fiercely.

  She fell off the bed, gasping through the hole in her neck. Had he hurt her? No, not even discouraged her. She rose to her knees, a supplicant reaching out her arms, inviting Stuart into them.

  "Get away from me, you demon! You … you … whore!"

  Eleanor cocked her head, and he could see his words were sinking in. She stood, trembling, and reached for the wall, then felt her way back to her room. If she could have cried, Stuart had no doubt she would have. God knew he wanted to. But at that moment, he was sure God wanted nothing to do with him.

  He walked to his door and closed and locked it.

  What have I done? God forgive me, what have I done?

  •

  THE SUN ARCHED high in the sky before Stuart got out of bed the next morning. Dry blood caked his pajamas, flaked off his skin. In the daylight, he could see that it was a lot of blood, more than he imagined could come from a broken hymen. He wondered if Eleanor was menstruating. More blood, still wet where it was at its thickest, painted the sheets. No amount of soap and water would ever wash that blood away. How could she have pushed herself on him like she had?

  No, what happened could not be pinned on Eleanor. It was his fault. He had been weak. He knew the connection he and Eleanor shared, yet he'd failed to protect her from passion's poisonous fruit. He had failed to protect her from him.

  And worst of all, Stuart had blamed Eleanor for it.

  The first thing he needed to do was clean himself up. The second thing, a close second: apologize to Eleanor. After that, he would have to begin the long, arduous process of making himself right again with the girl and the Lord.

  After washing and donning a fresh shirt and trousers—he left his collar atop his dresser—Stuart crossed the hall toward her room. I'm a fool. She's just a girl. I've abused her, her trust and the sanctity of our relationship.

  "How do I make her understand that this is all my fault?" Stuart asked the que
stion to an empty hallway, hoping God would see fit to place the answer in his mind.

  Letting out a deep breath, he raised his hand to knock on Eleanor's door. He stopped when he saw that it was cracked open. This time, he did not peek through the crack.

  "Eleanor? It's me. I've come to apologize." When she did not appear, he called again. "Eleanor?" He placed his hand flat against the door. "I'm coming in, Eleanor."

  Stuart pushed open the door. The room was in shambles. Eleanor's dresser lay flat across the floor. The contents of her closet were strewn everywhere. She must have made considerable noise causing the disarray. How had he slept through it?

  He scanned the room but saw no sign of Eleanor. A soft whimper came from the corner, a spot blockaded on three sides by two walls and Eleanor's bed. That was where he found her.

  Her appearance matched that of the room, a disheveled mess. She sat with her back against the wall and her knees tucked against her breasts, her head buried between them. When Stuart approached, she pulled her legs in tighter.

  Eleanor appeared to have been in that corner for some time. She still wore her happy face, though it no longer suited her. Blood smeared across its white surface, turning its exuberant grin into something maniacal. Her hands were covered in blood. Her nightgown looked as if it belonged to the victim of a homicide. Blood stained it everywhere, not just between her legs.

  Stuart began to weep and rushed to her side. He paused when he saw the knife.

  "Where did you get that?"

  Eleanor held a long, serrated kitchen knife in her right hand. The blade was red, with little chunks of meat stuck in its grooves. She must have had the knife for several days, weeks even. Stuart could not recall the last time they had red meat.

  With her left hand, Eleanor reached behind her back, groping for something hidden there. She pulled out the apple he had given her yesterday and rolled it at his feet. Its carved face stared up at Stuart.

  "Here," he said, reaching for her. Eleanor scurried back until she collided with the wall. He had made her like this. He had to fix it. A smile as phony as the one she wore fought to hold up his cheeks. "Let me help you up. We'll get you and this place cleaned up in no time." Even as he filled her ears with calming words, Stuart knew there were some stains he couldn't wash away.

  Eleanor shrank deeper into the corner. She slashed at the air between them with her knife. It was a warning, not meant to cut. Stuart heeded it.

  Maintaining a safe distance, he tried to pacify her. Tears fell from his eyes. "I'm sorry, Eleanor. Everything that has happened, all of it … it's my fault. You did nothing wrong. I was …" The words caught in his throat. He pressed on. "I was terrible to you. I have wronged you in so many ways I don't know if I will ever be able to make them right. But I promise you, I'll never stop trying."

  Stuart shook and sobbed, fell to his knees. Snot bubbled out of his nose. The backs of his hands rested upon the floor, palms upward, begging forgiveness. From God. From Eleanor. "I am sorry, truly sorry."

  Eleanor cocked her head. She's listening, at least. Oh, thank God. It's a start. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and stood. "Let's get you cleaned up, dear. Afterward, I will read you Gulliver's Travels, and we can eat apples, all the apples you want, with the Lilliputians."

  Eleanor sat still for a moment, then carefully rose to her feet. Stuart offered his hand. She fumbled in the air until she found it. Her other hand dropped the knife onto her bed.

  Stuart pulled her into his arms and held her close. She smelled of old sweat and older blood. He didn't care. Tears filled his eyes. "I'm sorry," he repeated over and over again, smothering the top of her head with kisses. "I never meant to hurt you. I never want to hurt you again."

  Eleanor rested her head upon his shoulder. For a while, they stood, holding each other, Stuart never wanting to let her go. He loved her, he knew, in all ways.

  But there was only one right way.

  Her hand slid down his chest. It slipped down the front of his trousers.

  He gently pushed her away, a softer rejection this time. "We can't, Eleanor. It's not right. Do you understand that? It would damn us both."

  The whimper Stuart had heard when he had entered her room returned. It came from Eleanor, though he had difficulty believing it. Her purrs, her moans and now that sound were all new to Stuart. She reached for his crotch again. Stuart stepped back.

  He straightened. "Eleanor, we can't. I was wrong to permit it the first time. In my weakness, I failed you. I won't fail you again. I'm sorry."

  Eleanor grunted. She pointed to her mask. The hole in her neck opened wide. "Boot."

  Stuart's mouth dropped open. He was stunned, speechless. Eleanor had made a sound, and he was certain she was trying to speak. "Boot?" He had no idea what it meant, but the joy he felt at the possibility of Eleanor forming her first word made him weep.

  "Did you just speak?" Stuart laughed, overwhelmed by the moment. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her close. "Maybe God has not yet forgotten us. Praise be to our Lord!"

  "Boot," Eleanor repeated, a sense of urgency in the way she said it. She pulled away. "Boot." She stomped her foot. A hiss followed by a gurgle spouted from her neck opening. Was she trying to form more words? How long had she been practicing in secret?

  "Fell," she said at last.

  "Fell? Boot fell?" Stuart stroked his chin. "Are you asking me if I think you are beautiful?"

  She nodded and placed a finger on her mask.

  "Of course I think you are beautiful. You know that."

  Eleanor stomped her feet. A growl emitted from her throat, and she tossed her head frantically left and right. Her fingers walked up Stuart's neck to his chin. They spread wide, curled and dug into his skin. With his face in her hand, Eleanor shook him. When she let go, she did the same to her linen mask.

  "Boot … fell?"

  Stuart thought he understood. She showed a lot of courage asking him what she was asking. She must have known the answer. Stuart hadn't the heart to say it. Hers was the one question that made him dishonest.

  "I don't know how to answer—"

  "Boot … fell!" Eleanor growled. She pounded her fist against his chest and pointed to her mask. "Boot … fell?"

  "It's a mask, Eleanor. You are beautiful in here." Stuart touched her above her bosom. "And we are all beautiful in the eyes of our Maker."

  A stinging ache ran though his cheek. He yelped more in surprise than in pain. He couldn't believe Eleanor had slapped him.

  "Boot … fell? Boot … fell? Boot fell, boot fell." The words were coming easier for her, and she began to chant them, all the while waving her hand at her mask. Spittle splashed from her neck, her voice becoming wet and slithery.

  "No," Stuart said. He looked away. "Your mask is not beautiful."

  Eleanor clapped. For some odd reason, the answer seemed to please her. She smoothed her dress with her hands and threw her shoulders back, standing tall and proud.

  Before Stuart could protest, she tore off her mask. "Boot fell?"

  Stuart yelped. He bit down on his knuckle to stifle a scream. His Adam's apple lodged in his throat, and his eyes widened in terror.

  "My God, Eleanor. What have you done?"

  Eleanor tried to speak. A steady stream of mucus- like plasma oozed from the hole on her neck. It didn't stop until Eleanor said the word she had worked so hard to say. "Fess."

  She ran her fingers down her face. Where Stuart remembered a smooth, vacant surface resembling the shell of a brown egg, marked only by two small black circles he had assumed were nostrils, a long gash ran horizontal across a gore-splattered canvas. Pink tendrils of flesh and muscle hung from the carved canyon's ceiling like bats in a cave. Eleanor had removed a section of her face that might have resembled a slice of melon. Stuart couldn't be sure. He didn't know what had happened to that excised flesh, and he didn't want to know.

  Above her nostrils were two more incisions, not exactly evenly spaced, but close. Eyes. The contents of
Stuart's stomach rumbled. She made eyes. One was slightly higher than the other, tilted at an entirely wrong angle. Blood streaked down from all three wounds.

  Eleanor tapped her new face. "Boot … fell?"

  THE SCAVENGERS

  BY TONY KNIGHTON

  _____

  "I'll take no less than five a man, Jimmy. I say we stand firm on that." Ace spoke into my right ear, raising his voice to be heard over the engine noise.

  I nodded. I didn't want to get into it with him again, not right then. I needed to concentrate on driving. The trail was rutted and we were jouncing badly. Better to let him think what he wanted.

  He kept on, though. "That kraut bastard isn't going to rip us off again."

  I couldn't tell if it was meant to be a question or a statement of fact. I didn't care. Ace was just letting his nerves show; he'd be okay when the time came. I kept a straight face and said, "Right on, man. Fucking A."

  I felt him scowling at me. "Fuck you, too." He turned in the open cab and pointing at me, shouted to Frederick and Joseph, the two Bantus in the back. "All the fucking same, these yanks."

  I watched them in the rear-view mirror. They ignored him, but grinned, not able to hear what he said, not really caring. They'd been educated in mission schools; both spoke English along with half-a-dozen other languages, but they feigned ignorance when Ace was on a tear. They knew him well enough to know he was just blowing off steam.

  They stood in the truck bed facing outboard in opposite directions scanning the dry grasslands, each with a Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder, muzzle down. It was a tough ride holding on to the tops of the high wooden truck sides, their legs bent at the knees, riding out the bumps.

  We weren't on a road; there weren't any roads where we were going. The trail we were on roughly followed a dry streambed that wouldn't see much water until the rains came.

  Ace said, "I tell you I need the five. Bello won't wait forever." He took a pouch from his khaki shirt pocket. There were dark sweat-stains under his arms rimmed with a line of dried salt. "It's a beautiful place, Jimmy. Not some slop-shute—a real old-style pub." He chuckled. "Can't you just see me in a barman's white shirt and black trousers?" He unrolled the pouch, grabbed a thick wad of the brown leaf tobacco and shoved it into the side of his mouth.