Zombies

by Otto Penzler

  It was the moment of truth. Kay took in a breath to steady herself.

  “M’sieu Margal, my name is Kay Gilbert, and I am a nurse. A hospital nurse. I came here—as I think you already know—to return a lost child to her home in Bois Sauvage. A child whom you, M’sieu, turned into a zombie but whom we at the hospital were able to restore to health. And I have a proposition for you.”

  The man who could not walk only stared at her with unblinking eyes, saying nothing.

  “I know what you are,” Kay continued, using words she had silently rehearsed on the way to this place. “I also know you cannot walk. So I have come to make you an offer.”

  Those eyes! She could not even decide what colour they were, they were so frightening. And they were doing things to her mind. She was losing her power of concentration.

  “As I say—M’sieu Margal—I am from the hospital. That hospital—in the Artibonite—which everyone in Haiti, including you, I am sure—knows about and respects. And I promise you this—that if you—if you will stop doing to people what you—what you did to Tina Anglade—if you will give me your word of honor never to—never to do such a thing again—we at the hospital will do our best to—to repair your legs so that you will be able to—to walk again.”

  She paused, struggling desperately to maintain control. Dear God, those eyes were making it so hard for her to think straight! Then when he did not answer her, except for a downward, ugly twist of his mouth, she added weakly, “I—I am not fluent in your—your language, M’sieu. Do you understand what—what—I—just—said?”

  Something like a laugh issued from that ugly mouth, and the stare intensified. Suddenly Kay was back in the caille where the harmless gecko had become a giant dragon intent on devouring her and the child. And then she was sitting on a grey mule, clutching its saddle, while an unreal darkness full of smoke and flames swirled up from a far-below valley to engulf her. And she knew what Margal was doing.

  Her offer of help meant nothing to him. He was bent on controlling her, perhaps destroying her. Perhaps the prospect of creating a white female zombie intrigued him. With only one move left to her, she grabbed at the brown leather bag dangling from her shoulder.

  Tearing it open, she thrust her hand in and snatched out the one thing it contained—the shiny black automatic her boyfriend, a doctor at the hospital, had insisted she keep with her for safety’s sake on this mad mission to the realm of Margal.

  But before she could even level the weapon, that room with its multicoloured walls became something else. No longer was she standing there in a house, struggling to point a deadly weapon at another human being. All at once she was in an outdoor place of idyllic beauty where any thought of killing seemed a kind of blasphemy.

  There were no weirdly painted walls here. No man with twisted legs sat on a chair in front of her, gazing at her with hypnotic eyes that merely mirrored the awful powers of his incredible mind.

  What she saw was a broad valley shimmering in sunlight—a lovely, dreamlike valley carpeted with green grass and colourful wild flowers. And where Margal’s chair had been was a young tulip tree with a soft, wide-eyed dove perched on one of its branches, gazing at her with pretty head atilt.

  But this isn’t Eden and that isn’t a dove, Gilbert! You know it isn’t! For God’s sake, don’t let him do this to you!

  She still had the gun in her hand. With every ounce of will power she possessed, she forced the hand to lift it, made her eyes and mind take aim, and commanded her finger to squeeze the trigger.

  In that idyllic setting there was but one living thing to aim at. The dove.

  The sound of the shot shattered the illusion and jolted her out of the hypnotic spell the man on the chair had not quite finished weaving about her. She came out of it just in time to see the bullet pierce his forehead and slam his head against the back of the chair. Still in a partial daze, she pushed herself erect and stumbled forward to look at him.

  He was dead. Not even Margal the Sorcerer could still be alive with such a hole in his head and most of his brains splattered over the back of the chair. Never again would he do what he had done to little Tina Anglade—and probably more than a few others.

  Probably it had been a foolish notion, anyway, to think he might change his ways if given the ability to walk again.

  Her trembling had subsided. In full control of herself again, she looked for the boy, who perhaps, like Luc Etienne, had hoped by serving the master to absorb some of Margal’s evil knowledge. When she called to him, there was no answer. Apparently he had fled.

  With a last glance at the dead man on the chair, she put the gun back into the brown leather bag and walked out of the house. At the waterfall, the father of little Tina Anglade was waiting for her, as promised. He stepped forward, frowning.

  “I heard a noise like a gunshot,” he said, his frown asking the unspoken question.

  She shrugged. “That man made a noise to frighten me, the way he made the thunder at Saut Diable that I told you about.” With his help, she climbed onto the grey mule. “I’m finished,” she added. “I’ve done what I was sent here for. Now we can go home.”

  IN ADDITION TO being a prolific author, mainly of horror and supernatural fiction, Chet Williamson (1948– ) has had a successful career as a musician and as an actor with a lifetime membership in Actors’ Equity. Born in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, he received his B.A. from Indiana University of Pennsylvania and became a teacher in Cleveland before becoming a professional actor. He turned to full-time freelance writing in 1986 and has written more than a hundred short stories for such publications as The New Yorker, Playboy, The Twilight Zone, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and Esquire. He has also written twenty novels, beginning with Soulstorm (1986), and a psychological suspense play, Revenant. Among his numerous awards are the International Horror Guild Award for Best Short Story Collection for Figures in Rain: Weird and Ghostly Tales (2002), two nominations for the World Fantasy Award, six for the Bram Stoker Award by the Horror Writers Association, and an Edgar Allan Poe Award nomination by the Mystery Writers of America for Best Short Story for “Season Pass” (1985). Many readers believe that Williamson’s finest work was in his Searchers trilogy: City of Iron (1998), Empire of Dust (1998), and Siege of Stone (1999), an X-Files–type series with the basic premise being that three CIA operatives are asked by a rogue CIA director to investigate paranormal activities—not to find out the truth, but to debunk the claims.

  “The Cairnwell Horror” was based on the infamous Glamis Castle in Scotland and its horrifying secrets, said to be known only by male members of the royal family, who learn them on their eighteenth birthday but are sworn to secrecy. It was first published in Walls of Fear, edited by Kathryn Cramer (New York: William Morrow, 1990).

  “A MONSTER, DO you suppose? A genetic freak that’s remained alive for centuries?”

  “Undoubtedly, Michael. With two heads, three sets of genitals, and a curse for those who mock.” George McCormack, sole heir to Cairnwell Castle, raised a three-by-five-inch card on which lay a line of cocaine. “I propose a toast—of sorts—to it then. Old beast, old troll, nemesis of my old great-however-many-times-granddad, whom I shall finally meet next week.” A quick snort, and the powder was gone.

  George smiled, relishing the rush, the coziness of his den, the company, and found himself thinking about asking Michael to spend the night. He was about to make the suggestion when Michael asked, “Why twenty-one, do you suppose? If it’s all that important, why not earlier?”

  “Coming of age, Michael. As you well know, all males are virgins until that age, and no base liquors or, ahem, controlled substances have passed their pristine lips or nostrils. Other than that, I can’t bloody well tell you until after next week, and even then, according to that same stifling and weary tradition, I must keep the deep, dark family secret all to my lonesome.”

  “Yes, but if you don’t pay any more attention to that traditio
n than you do to the others, well . . .”

  “Ah, will I tell, you’re thinking? In all likelihood, if there’s a pound to be made on it, yes, I damned well will. I’ve thought the whole thing was asinine ever since I was a kid. And the five thousand pounds your little rag offers can pay for an awful lot of raped tradition.”

  “So when’ll you be leaving London for the bogs?”

  “The bogs?” George snorted. “Careful, mate. That’s my castle you’re speaking of.”

  “I thought it was your father’s.”

  “Yes, well.” George frowned. “It doesn’t appear he’ll be around much longer to take care of things.”

  “You’ve asked him what the secret is, I suppose.”

  “Christ, dozens of times. Always the same answer: ‘You’re better off not knowing until the time comes.’ Yeah. Pardon me while I tremble with fear. Bunch of shit anyway. When I was a kid, I spent hours looking for secret panels, hidden crypts, all that rubbish, and not a thing did I find. After a while, I just got bored with it.”

  “Ever see any ghosts?”

  George gave Michael a withering glare. “No,” he said flatly. “Whatever plagues the McCormacks, it’s not ghosts.” He hurled a soft pillow at his friend. “Jesus, will you stop jotting down those notes—it’s driving me mad!”

  “George, this is an interview, and you are being paid.”

  “I’m just not used to being grilled.”

  “You knew I was a journalist when we became . . . friends.”

  “You were about to say lovers.” George smiled cheekily. “And why not?”

  “We haven’t been lovers for months.”

  “No fault of mine.”

  Michael shook his head. “I’m here to do a job, not . . . rekindle memories. I didn’t suggest your bogey story to David because I wanted to start things up again.”

  “And I didn’t agree to talk to you because I wanted to start things up either,” George lied. “I agreed to it because of the money. We’re having a lovely little hundred-pound chat. And if I decide to spill the beans after next week, we’ll have an even lovelier five-thousand-pound chat.” George stood and stretched, bending his neck back and around in a gesture that he hoped Michael would find erotic.

  “And I’m happy to keep it on those terms,” Michael said.

  George stopped twisting his neck. “Bully for you. Do you want to go up to Cairnwell with me next week?”

  “I didn’t know I was invited.”

  “Of course you are.” George grinned. “And I’ll tell them exactly what you’re there for—to expose the secret of Cairnwell Castle, should I care to reveal it to the whole drooling world. That should make old Maxwell shit his britches. You’ll come?” “ Wouldn’t miss it. Thank you.”

  “I assume then you’ll foot my traveling expenses? My taste for the finer things has laid me low financially once again, and that damned Maxwell won’t send a penny. Once I’m laird of the manor, let me tell you the first thing I’m doing is finding a new solicitor.”

  CAIRNWELL CASTLE WAS as ungainly a pile of stones as was ever raised. Even though George had grown up there, he always felt intimidated by the formidable gray block that heaved itself out of the low Scottish landscape like a megalithic frowning head. Often when he was a child, he awoke in the middle of the night and, realizing what it was that he was within, would cry until his mother came and held him and sang to him until he fell asleep. His father had not approved of his behavior, but his mother always came when he cried, right up until the week that she died, and was no longer able. From then on, he cried himself back to sleep.

  “Dear God, that’s an ugly building,” Michael remarked.

  “Isn’t it. You see why I came down to London as quickly as my little adolescent legs would carry me.”

  As they drove into the massive court, charmlessly formed by two blocky wings of dirty stone, they saw an older man dressed in tweeds standing at the front door. “Maxwell,” George said. “Richard Maxwell.”

  The man looked every day of his sixty-odd years, and wore the constant look of mild disapproval with which George had always associated him. His eyebrows raised as he observed George’s spiky blond hair and the small diamond twinkling in his left ear. They raised even higher when he learned Michael Spencer’s profession, and he asked to speak to George alone.

  Leaving Michael in the entryway, Maxwell led George into a huge, starkly furnished antechamber, and closed the massive door behind them. “What do you think you’re doing bringing a journalist with you?” he said.

  “I think I’m doing the world a favor by sharing the secret of the lairds of Cairnwell, so we can stop living in some Gothic storybook, Maxwell, that’s what I’m doing.”

  Maxwell’s ruddy complexion turned pale. “You’d expose the secret?”

  “If it turns out to be as absurd as I think it will.”

  “You cannot. You dare not.”

  “Spare me the histrionics, Maxwell. I’m sure you’ve been practicing your lines for months now, looking forward to my birthday tomorrow, but it’s really getting a bit thick.”

  “You don’t understand, George. It’s not the nature of the secret itself that will keep you from exposing it—though I daresay you’ll want to keep it as quiet as all your ancestors have. Rather, it’s the terms of the inheritance that will ensure your silence.” Maxwell smiled smugly. “If you ever reveal what you see tomorrow, you lose Cairnwell and all your family’s holdings. All told, it comes to half a million.”

  “Lose it! How the hell can I lose it? I’m sole heir.”

  “You can lose it to charity, as stipulated in the document written and signed by the seventeenth laird of Cairnwell and extending into perpetuity. I’ve made you a copy, which you’ll receive tomorrow. It further states that you’re to spend nine months out of every year at Cairnwell, and, if you have a male heir”—here Maxwell curled his lip—“the secret’s to be revealed to him on his twenty-first birthday. Any departure from these stipulations means that you forfeit the castle. Understood?”

  George smiled grimly. “Thought of everything, haven’t you?”

  “Not me. Your four-times great-grandfather.”

  “Sly old bastard.”

  “Now,” Maxwell went on, ignoring the comment, “I would like you to dismiss that journalist and come see your father. He’s been waiting for you.”

  George walked slowly out to the entryway, where Michael was waiting. “I’m afraid I’ve rather bad news,” he said, and watched Michael’s lips tighten. “You can’t stay. I’m sorry.”

  “I can’t stay?” The last word leapt, George thought, at least an octave.

  “No. It’s part of the . . . tradition, you see.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, George, you mean I motored all the way up to this godforsaken pile for nothing?”

  “I’ll be in touch as soon as it’s over,” George said quietly, fearing that Maxwell would overhear.

  “Christ . . .”

  “I didn’t know. But I’ll call you, I swear. I said I was sorry.”

  Michael gave him the same look as when he had told George that he didn’t think they should see each other anymore. “All right then. Come and get your bloody bags.”

  Michael opened the boot, roughly handed George his luggage, and drove away with no words of farewell. George watched the car disappear over the fields, then went to visit his father in the largest bedchamber of the castle.

  The twenty-second laird of Cairnwell was propped up on an overstuffed chaise, and George was shocked at the change in his father since his last visit over six months before.

  The cancer had been progressing merrily along. At least another thirty pounds had been sucked off the old man’s frame. What was left of the muscles hung like doughy pouches on the massive skeleton. The skin was a wrapping of faded parchment, a lesion all of its own. There was no hope in the eyes, and the smell of death—of sour vomit and diseased bowels, of bloody mucus coughed from riddled lungs—was ev
erywhere.

  His father was the castle. What the man had become was nothing less than Cairnwell itself, a massive tumor of the soul that grew and festered like the lichen on the gray stone.

  Then, just for a moment, trapped within the rotting hulk, George glimpsed his father as he had been when George was a boy and his father was young. But the moment passed, and, expressionless, he walked to his father’s side, leaned over, and kissed the leathery cheek, nearly choking at the smell that rose from the fresh stains on the velvet dressing gown.

  They talked, shortly and uncomfortably, saying nothing of the revelation of the secret the next day except for setting the time when the three of them should meet in the morning. Eight thirty-five was the appointed hour, the time of George’s birth.

  That night, George could not sleep, so he sat by the fireplace long past midnight, thinking about Cairnwell and its hold on his father, its unhealthy, even cancerous hold on all the McCormacks. He thought about the way the castle had sapped his father’s strength, and, years before, his mother’s. Although she had never known the secret, she nonetheless had shared the burden of it with her husband, and, being far weaker than he, she had been quickly consumed by it, just after George’s eighth birthday.

  Then he thought about his debts, about nine months of every year spent at Cairnwell, about the horror that he was to see tomorrow.

  When sleep finally came, it was dreamless.

  The next morning dawned gray and misty, with no sunlight to banish the shadows that hung in every cold, high-ceilinged room. George rose, showered, and put on a jacket and tie rather than one of the sweaters he usually wore. In spite of his anger over the hereditary charade, he felt the situation demanded a touch of formality. He even removed the diamond from his ear.

  His father and Maxwell were already breakfasting when George arrived in the dining hall: Maxwell on rashers and eggs, his father on weak tea and toast cubes. George took the vacant chair.

  “Good morning, George,” his father said in a thin, reedy tone. The old man wore a black suit that hung on him like a blanket on a scarecrow. The white shirtfront was already stained in several places. “Have some breakfast?”