Vile Things: Extreme Deviations of Horror

by et al. Ramsey Campbell

  “I think seriously this is time for cops.”

  They were halfway across the living-room when they heard another bump, and a shuffling sound.

  “Oh holy Jesus what is that?” whispered Mr Kasabian.

  Mrs Gustaffson said nothing, but took two or three more steps toward the kitchen door, which was slightly ajar.

  Together they approached the kitchen until they were standing right outside the door. Mrs Gustaffson cocked her head to one side and said, “I can hear— what is that?—crying?”

  But it was more like somebody struggling for breath, as if they were carrying a very heavy weight.

  “Mr Stavanger?” called Mrs Gustaffson, with as much authority as she could manage. “I need to talk to you, Mr Stavanger.”

  She pushed the kitchen door open a little further, and then she pushed it wide. Mr Kasabian let out an involuntary mewl of dread.

  There was a figure standing in the kitchen. It was silhouetted against the window, an extraordinary bulky creature with a small head and massive shoulders, and arms that swung uselessly down at its sides. As Mrs Gustaffson stepped into the room, it staggered as if it were almost on the point of collapse. Mr Kasabian switched on the light.

  * * * *

  The stripped-pine kitchen looked like an abbatoir. There were wild smears of dried blood all across the floor, bloody handprints on every work-surface, and the sink was heaped with black and clotted lumps of flesh. The smell was so acrid that Mrs Gustaffson’s eyes filled with tears.

  The bulky figure that swayed in front of them was David … but a David who was long dead. His skin was white, and tinged in places with green. His arms hung down and his legs buckled at the knees, so that his feet trailed on the linoleum. He had no head, but out of his neck cavity rose Melanie’s head, her hair caked with dried blood, her eyes staring.

  It took Mrs Gustaffson and Mr Kasabian ten long heartbeats to understand what they were looking at. Melanie had opened up David’s body, from his chest to his groin, and emptied it of most of his viscera. Then she had cut off his head and widened his throat, so that she could climb inside his ribcage and force her own head through. She was actually wearing David’s body like a heavy, decaying cloak.

  She had made up David’s severed head with foundation and lipstick, and decorated his hair with dried chrysanthemums. Then she had put it into a string bag along with Echo’s head, and hung the two of them around her neck. She had inserted Echo’s bedraggled tail into her vagina, so that it hung down between her thighs.

  “Melanie,” said Mr Kasabian, in total shock. “Melanie, what happened?”

  Melanie tried to take a step forward, but David’s body was far too heavy for her, and all she could manage was a sideways lurch.

  “We’re one person,” she said, and there was such joy and excitement in her voice that Mrs Gustaffson had to cover her ears. “We’re one person!”

  What You Wish For

  Garry Bushell

  * * *

  “OH, FUCK HIM,” Jayne Titchmarsh-Harvey spat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck him.” Half a day she had given up, out of her very busy schedule, to go to Uncle Conrad’s funeral. That’s rich Uncle Conrad, who had made his millions from property development and porn; and all the selfish old bastard had left her was this?

  Nostrils flaring with indignation, she eyed the old-fashioned Remington typewriter with disdain.

  What a shit-useless chunk of antiquated junk.

  She watched the delivery guy deposit it on her coffee table and wait for a moment for the tip that never came. The words of Conrad’s will, recited by his dim solicitor, played around her head. “For my talented niece, may you write your next TV hit in style …”

  Jayne scowled. Her next TV hit would almost certainly now involve the painful murder of a rich old porn baron suffering from halitosis and erectile dysfunction; but only as an aside of course. All of Jayne’s work—the entire Titchmarsh-Harvey oeuvre—was devoted to serial killers who preyed mercilessly on vulnerable women, usually hookers or lap-dancers. The killers would run rings around the male cops—sexist cavemen to a man—but they always met their match in Elizabeth ‘Lizzy’ Wordsworth, Jayne’s steely-eyed, tough-as-anyguy-but-feminine-with-it detective inspector.

  The Sunday Telegraph had been queasy about the level of sadomasochistic sex in her stories; much of Jayne’s blood-thirsty TV fiction bordered on autopsy-porn with lingering close-ups of horrendous injuries and maggot-infested corpses. Her victims were always debased, butchered and utterly dehumanized.

  They were raped and killed in such depraved ways that had a man written the scripts, he would rightly have been accused of misogyny. In the Sun, television critic Ally Ross observed that Titchmarsh-Harvey was “as right-on as Newt Gingrich in a peek-a-boo bra” and “a piece of work.” But because Jayne’s heroine was female, and all the male characters were vile, she continued to attract the moist-gusset support of admiring feminist thinkers and the vast majority of middle class broadsheet critics. The entire liberal arts establishment sang her praises. She “provoked debate” and “confounded expectations”, apparently. Her ITV Southbank Show special was in the bag.

  In just eighteen episodes over three successful prime time series, Lizzy Wordsworth had become part of the national culture. No high-ranking woman cop mentioned in the UK press could escape being compared to her.

  This year Jayne hoped that Bafta would finally reward her efforts with a gong.

  “Oh isn’t it lovely?” Her mousy PA Mandy Snell was admiring the Remington. “I bet you can’t wait to get these keys clack-clacking away. It’ll be like being back in the newsroom for you.”

  Jayne shuddered. The one thing she never wanted to be reminded of was her time in the Daily Star newsroom, when she was plain Jane Watts, ashamed of her small-town Lancashire vowels, and about to have her heart broken by the news editor.

  Jayne shot her PA a look she could have stored popsicles in.

  “It’s junk,” she said. “What possible use could I have for this?”

  Mandy was stung by the sharpness of her voice.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her bottom lip quivering. “I just thought that it would be nice to have something permanent to remember your uncle with. Especially as he once said he planned his career on his Remington; Conrad said he felt his soul entwined with it. I read it in …” Her voice trailed off as Jayne’s glare intensified.

  “Yeah? Well let me know when your brain comes back from lunch. Have you got that new script printed out yet?”

  “Not quite, still inputting it,” Mandy replied, adding defensively, “I had to go into town yesterday to pick up your mourning clothes from the hire shop and …”

  “Well you’ve only got until Friday. Tarquin Stanley-Clarke at Network Centre must have it before he leaves for Tuscany.”

  “I’ll get on with it tomorrow.”

  “You do that.”

  “I’ll …”

  Jayne turned her back on her. Mandy reddened and left. Jayne wrote all of her screen-plays in long-hand. Mandy’s main job, when she wasn’t answering the phone, fetching papers, running errands and making coffee, was to decipher them and type them up on her PC, correcting the spelling as she went. Working here used to be fun, she reflected; but her boss had changed since the run-away success of season one. Self-important, that was the word. These days she was more full of herself than a self-catering cannibal.

  Jayne poured herself a glass of Krystal champagne and sneered at the Remington. At least an antique Harris Visible would have been worth a few bob. So Conrad’s soul was entwined with this piece of shit, was it? His arsehole more like. Idly, she slipped a sheet of A4 paper into the machine and typed one-fingered: ‘Jayne Titchmarsh-Harvey wins the Lottery,’ she wrote. Then she laughed, tore out the paper, screwed it up and threw it in the bin.

  Half a bottle and a Celine Dion CD later, she placed the typewriter in a black bin liner and carried it to the kitchen for Mandy to dispose of in the morning, gigglin
g as she went.

  It wasn’t until half-way through the next morning that Jayne checked the Lotto results in the Daily Mail. She nearly choked on her smoked salmon bagel. The six winning numbers were all hers. The jackpot was an estimated £2.5million. There was one winner.

  Her.

  “Mandy!” she shrieked.

  Her PA ran in to the kitchen from the office.

  “Where’s that typewriter?”

  “I put it out in the big bins, like you wanted.”

  “Fuck-wit!”

  Jayne shot out of the apartment in her dressing gown and slippers, a worried Mandy trotting along behind her. By the bins, her boss cupped her hands and the PA reluctantly climbed up and into the waste to fish through the filth and find the sack containing the Remington. Jayne left her dusting herself down while she rushed the machine back to the office. Putting in a sheet of paper, she typed: ‘Jayne Titchmarsh-Harvey wins Bafta … Jayne Titchmarsh-Harvey honoured by the Queen …’ She paused, smiled and then added: ‘Jayne Titchmarsh-Harvey meets her perfect man—six foot 2, bright, athletic, sharp-dressed toy-boy—today.’ Smiling to herself, she took the sheet of paper out of the typewriter, folded it tightly and slipped it into her diary.

  “Mandy,” she barked. “Run me a bath!”

  If she was going to meet Mr Right tonight, she was damn well going to get laid. It had been a long time.

  Jayne had arranged to meet an old newspaper colleague Hillary Boisdale in a Limehouse pub—she was a frightful bore but she couldn’t be seen out and about like Billy No-Mates. She should get there for six, she decided. The place was frequented by plenty of high-flying City boys.

  Everything was going to plan, except that dim Mandy—she’d have to go— hadn’t finished inputting the script.

  “It has to be at ITV by 9 am tomorrow,” Jayne told her PA sternly as she left. “So you jolly well stay late and get it all done. I don’t care if you’re here until midnight. If you don’t finish, you’re out of a job. Got it?”

  Mandy bit her bottom lip to stop the tears.

  The City Pride pub positively throbbed with testosterone. Eager to out-do each other, bullish market men flashed their cash and chatted up every piece of “skirt” in the joint. Several tried to hit on the two women, but only one man seemed to fit Jayne’s bill. Neill was six foot two with Morrissey’s haircut and what looked like David Beckham’s body. He was also, it transpired, five years younger than her, buff and rich enough to be wearing a brand new La Crosse XC-55 wristwatch. As soon as he clapped eyes on Jayne, he seemed transfixed by her. And this charming man proved his worth when the power cut hit. Making his excuses to Hillary, Neill swept Jayne off her feet and drove her to Booty’s riverside bar, where, for a small consideration, Dennis the owner laid on candles, champagne and lasagne cooked on a camping stove—just for them.

  When Neill dropped her home at 10 pm, Jayne knew she had to have him. They embraced as soon as the front door was shut—thankfully that lazy cow Mandy had already left. The sex that followed, there on the carpet, was as wild as anything Jayne had ever experienced; her orgasm was shattering in its intensity.

  She fetched him a beer from the fridge—warm because of the blasted power cut. Neill listened intently and kept her brandy glass topped up as she told him about her life, her work regime and her dreams. They talked for hours. She had never met such an attentive guy.

  He asked about what she would do after the Wordsworth series. She told him about her idea for a kind of super-feminist killer; a vamp who beds scores of bad men and then tortures them and kills them. “Kind of like Dexter in a skirt,” he thought, but didn’t say. It would be the antidote to most serial killer stories, Jayne insisted, where women are the victims. The Guardian would love it.

  “Are you in to torture?” he asked, smiling sweetly.

  “A little play-bondage never hurt anyone,” she replied coquettishly.

  Neill scooped her up in his hands and carried her through to the bedroom where he slowly undressed and lovingly caressed her. Then he lay her gently, face down on her double bed and tied her feet and hands to the bed-posts using his belt, his tie and the cords from her dressing gowns.

  The last knot was a little too tight.

  “That hurts, darling,” she said.

  He smacked her straight round the face, roughly pulled back her head and fastened his handkerchief around her mouth to stop her talking.

  Jayne was furious. She was all for a little authenticity but really, this was too much. She started to struggle. Neill hit her again and produced a scalpel from his pocket, holding it hard against her face. Jayne froze. The anal sex that followed was nowhere near as painful as what came after; as Neill went on to violate her with a series of household objects.

  The wetness she felt was her own blood.

  She was on the verge of passing when he began to make the first incision by the side of her right eye. Jayne snapped wide awake. How was this happening to her?

  Just as suddenly she realised. The power cut! Obviously Mandy hadn’t been able to finish the last scenes on the computer and print it out so she would have had to have done it on the blasted typewriter. And in the closing moments of episode one, the rich but hateful society lady was raped, beaten and then skinned alive by her latest concubine. The pitiful remains of her body would be found the next morning—or on TV in episode two—by her shocked maid, or in this case the loyal PA.

  Oh Mandy, you fucking idiot.

  In reality Jayne Titchmarsh-Harvey was not skinned alive and her corpse was not found until several weeks later when her neighbours complained about the smell. Mandy never came back to work. She had never finished typing out the episode either. If Jayne had bothered looking she would have found her heartfelt, hand-written resignation note on her desk, stained with her tears.

  The Times was not the only paper to comment on the irony.

  Jayne Titchmarsh-Harvey, who had made her name with chilling stories about serial killers, was savagely murdered herself by a killer who preyed on wealthy middle-aged widows in a manner that bore remarkable similarities to the fiend in her second Lizzy Wordsworth series.

  Neill—real name Charles Beeson—was a Wordsworth obsessive; his Stepney council flat was covered in pictures of the star, and of Jayne Titchmarsh-Harvey. His City boy life-style turned out to be as phoney as his watch, which he’d bought for 25 notes in a pub in Shoreditch. There was no Lizzy Wordsworth to find him, of course; just a world-weary, scum-hating East End DI who made damn sure he hurt him before slapping on the cuffs.

  Jayne’s obituary noted that the Bafta-winning writer, due to be made a Dame in the Queen’s Birthday Honours List, had left nearly £2.75 million in the bank.

  No friends or family attended her funeral; just an odd assortment of ghouls, Wordsworth fans and weirdoes.

  Shortly after, Mandy Snell contacted her closest relatives and asked if she could have the Remington as a keepsake to remember her old employer by. Mandy now lives in Dubai, when she isn’t in her riverside pad in Chelsea; or with her two adorable sons cheering on her mega-rich footballer husband to another sensational victory at Stamford Bridge. It turned out to be a record-breaking season.

  The Devil Lives in Jersey

  Z.F. Kilgore

  * * *

  EX-POLICE DETECTIVE Cord Bergen merged onto the New Jersey Turnpike, away from New York City on the evening of January 20th in his blue Honda minivan, pulling behind it the small rented trailer containing all of his and his son’s possessions. His wife remained in New York, refusing to leave, claiming it was because of her job, but he knew better. It was because of her boss, and she was probably already shacked up with him at this moment. Actually, he supposed, it really was because of her job. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the diminishing skyline of the city and felt a sense of relief and peace.

  His sixteen-year-old son Adam sat sullen and quiet in the passenger seat staring out the window.

  “Look, Adam,” he said, “I know you don
’t want to leave New York, but it’s only a couple of hours away, it’s not like we’re moving to California or something. It’ll be good for you to have a change of scenery.”

  Adam rolled his eyes but continued staring out the window. “C’mon dad, I’m not stupid. You’re not doing this for me. I know why we’re leaving. Mom told me.”

  “What? What did she tell you?”

  “That you were under pressure to catch that serial killer guy, and you couldn’t do it. You were freaked out over it, and drinking all the time. They wanted to get rid of you anyway, and get someone who could catch him.”

  Bitch, he thought. Fucking bitch. Did she also tell him about her extracurricular activities and the real reason she wasn’t coming with them? Probably not. Instead she had blamed it on him and his drinking.

  The Manhattan Monster, as he’d been dubbed, had been terrorizing New York City women for three years. Cord had been put on the case immediately since he was the occult expert. The Monster had mutilated and killed nearly 40 women, about one a month, each on the full moon. He carved a pentagram on each victim’s back. Three years and he had been no closer to catching the guy. It had driven him to drink heavily, and his wife had become fed up with it.

  “Yeah okay, that’s true. She shouldn’t have told you that, though. But that’s not the whole reason, you know that.”

  “Sure, I guess it’s my fault, right? You think that ‘getting away from the city’ will help straighten me out, right? Nice, wholesome setting, and all that bullshit?”

  “Well, I suppose that’s part of it. But it was the house, you know. My grandmother dying and leaving it to me. Then the police chief job came up and well, I thought it would be a good opportunity.”

  “Why didn’t you just sell the house?”

  “I tried to sell it, you know that. No one would buy it though and I would have still had to pay the upkeep. It doesn’t have to be permanent, just to get us both straightened out, I guess.”