We moved over to the couch and I held her until she stopped crying. I got up, fixed us both a drink, and finished the story.
“How could you let him tattoo your skin?” Laura asked; and then, exposing what she was really thinking about, she said in a whisper, “I can’t believe Ruth’s gone. We were good friends, you didn’t know that, did you?”
“I guess I didn’t.” After a pause, I said, “I didn’t let Nathan tattoo me. I told you, I was unconscious. I’d had an attack or something.” I don’t know if Laura really believed that. She had been a nurse for fifteen years.
“Well, let me take a look at what’s under the gauze.”
I let her unbutton my shirt; with one quick motion, she tore the gauze away. Looking down, I just saw the crisscrossings and curlicues and random lines that were thin raised welts over my heart.
“What the hell did he do to you? This whole area could get infected. Who knows if his needle was even clean. You could get hepatitis, or AIDS, considering the kinds of people who go in for tattoos.”
“No, he kept everything clean,” I said.
“Did he have an autoclave?” she asked.
“Yes, I think he did.”
Laura went to the downstairs bathroom and came back with betadine and a clean bandage. Her fuzzy blue bathrobe was slightly open, and I felt myself becoming excited. She was a tiny woman, small boned and delicate-featured, yet big-busted, which I liked. When we first lived together, before we married, she was extremely shy in bed, even though she’d already been married before; yet she soon became aggressive, open, and frank, and to my astonishment I found that I had grown more conservative.
I touched her breasts as she cleaned the tattoo, or more precisely, the welts, for he used no pigment. The betadine and the touch of her hands felt cool on my chest.
“Can you make anything out of this?” she asked, meaning the marks Nathan had made.
I looked down, but couldn’t make anything more out of them than she could. I wanted to look at the marks closely in the mirror, but Laura had become excited, as I was, and we started making love on the couch. She was on top of me, we still had our clothes on, and we were kissing each other so hard that we ground our teeth. I pressed myself inside her. Our lovemaking was urgent and cleansing. It was as if we had recovered something, and I felt my heart beating, clear and strong. After we came and lay locked together, still intimate, she whispered, “Poor Nathan.”
I dreamed about him that night. I dreamed of the tattoo I had seen on his chest, the parade of demons and fabulous creatures. I was inside his tattoo, watching him walking off with Ruth’s heart. I could hear the demon angels shouting and snarling and waving pieces of bone as they rode atop unicorns and skeleton dragons flapping canvas-skinned pterodactyl wings. Then Nathan saw me, and he stopped. He looked as skeletal as the creatures around him, as if his life and musculature and fat had been worn away, leaving nothing but bones to be buried.
He smiled at me and gave me Ruth’s heart.
It was warm and still beating. I could feel the blood clotting in my hand.
I woke up with a jolt. I was shaking and sweating. Although I had turned up the thermostat before going to bed, it was cold in the bedroom. Laura was turned away from me, moving restlessly, her legs raised toward her chest in a semi-fetal position. All the lights were off, and as it was a moonlit night, the snow reflected a wan light; everything in the room looked shadowy blue. And I felt my heart pumping fast.
I got up and went into the bathroom. Two large dormer windows over the tub to my left let in the dim light of a streetlamp near the southern corner of the house. I looked in the mirror at my chest and could see my tattoo. The lines were etched in blue, as if my body were snow reflecting moonlight. I could see a heart; it was luminescent. I saw an angel wrapped in deathly wings, an angel such as the one Nathan had put on Mrs. Stramm’s wrist to heal her; but this angel, who seemed to have some of Nathan’s features—his crooked nose and full mouth, had spread his wings, and his perfect infant hands held out Ruth’s heart to me.
Staring, I leaned on the white porcelain sink. I felt a surging of life, as if I was being given a gift, and then the living image of the tattoo died. I shivered naked in the cold bathroom. I could feel the chill passing through the ill-fitting storms of the dormer windows. It was as if the chill were passing right through me, as if I had been opened up wide.
And I knew that Nathan was in trouble. The thought came to me like a shock of cold water. But I could feel Nathan’s presence, and I suddenly felt pain shoot through my chest, concentrated in the tattoo, and then I felt a great sadness, an oceanic grief.
I dressed quickly and drove back to Trout Creek. The fairgrounds were well-lit, but deserted. It had stopped snowing. The lights were on in Nathan’s trailer. I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. The door was unlocked, as I had left it, and I walked in.
Nathan was dead on the floor. His shirt was open and his chest was bleeding—he had the same tattoo I did. But his face was calm, his demons finally exorcised. I picked him up, carried him to the couch, and kissed him goodbye.
As I left, I could feel his strength and sadness and love pumping inside me. The wind blew against my face, drying my tears ... it was the cold fluttering of angel’s wings.
ACQUIRING A FAMILY by R. Chetwynd-Hayes
While relatively little known in the United States, R. Chetwynd-Hayes has become a major figure in horror fiction in England over the past two decades. Born in Isleworth, Middlesex on May 30, 1919, Chetwynd-Hayes had his first sale in 1954, but it wasn’t until 1971 with his first collection of horror stories, The Unbidden, that he became active within his genre. Very active, indeed. Chetwynd-Hayes has written some twenty-five novels and collections of short stories and has edited another twenty-five horror anthologies—including the 9th through 20th volumes of The Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories. There have been two films based on his work: From Beyond the Grave and The Monster Club. His latest books include Tales from the Shadows, Tales from the Haunted House, and Dracula’s Children.
As a rule, R. Chetwynd-Hayes works within traditional horror concepts—hauntings, monsters, supernatural powers—although the results are often unexpected twists or just plain twisted. Like Robert Bloch, Chetwynd-Hayes frequently mixes humor and horror together, as anyone who has read or seen The Monster Club will attest. However, I don’t think “Acquiring a Family” will leave you laughing.
Celia Watson examined the front of her new house with a critical eye, but could detect nothing lacking. The five windows—three up and two down—gleamed as only freshly cleaned glass can; the red brickwork looked as if it had been washed and sanded in the not too distant past, while frames, guttering and front door glittered with recently applied green paint.
Celia had dreamed of such a house for a long time and it was only the event of an ancient uncle’s demise and the acquisition of his money, that had enabled her to buy this one. She was grateful for the late uncle’s thoughtfulness in leaving her the wherewithal to enjoy not only this dream house, but sufficient funds to never again have to consider the dire prospect of gainful employment.
She took a large key from her handbag, fitted it into a keyhole, then flung the door open.
The pseudo antique furniture suited the small house, ranging as it did from a credence table and umbrella-cum-hat-stand in the tiny hall, to the looming Tudor-style wardrobe and bed in what might be called the main bedroom. The last owner had decorated all the walls with light brown emulsion paint, and although this served as an excellent background for the furniture, it did have a rather depressing effect when viewed for the first time, but even this Celia managed to ignore. She had seen the interior of the house before of course and agreed to take it as it stood, furniture, decor and all; she hoped she would live there for many years and die contented—if not happy—in the vast Tudor style bed.
Such is one of the illusions that make up the foundation of that great fantasy we call life.
/> Celia Watson spoke aloud: “This is what I have always wanted. Thanks to God I am not too old to enjoy it.”
She was fifty-three, an age that has escaped from the chains of youth, but has not yet slid into the iron cage of old age. At such a time of life one should be in a position to benefit from experience, while still enjoying clear mental powers and—hopefully—good health.
Celia enjoyed both.
But she was alone. A strange distaste for any form of close intimacy with persons of either sex, resulted in her never marrying, or as for that matter encouraging anything more than superficial friendships, so that now—while still enjoying her own company—there was a fear-germ—a nagging thought—that she might have missed out on something essential to her well-being.
She swept, brushed, polished, arranged pictures and knick-knacks to her satisfaction, then manhandled heavy furniture from one place to another. But the time came when all that could be done was done and the bright hues of novelty died; then the fear-germ returned, a little larger, stronger than before.
Alien thoughts chased each other down the rarely explored avenues of the brain and eventually congregated into a ridiculous notion:
She should have had children.
Before moving into the cottage she would have laughed such an idea to scorn, for had she not ridiculed the premise that a woman’s primary role was that of mother? “In this over-crowded planet,” she often maintained, “I at least have not made the situation worse by brat production. Pity there’s not a few more like me.”
Now, while seated on a well padded chair, she would splutter up from a shallow sleep, almost certain that she had been awakened by tiny fingers tugging at her skirt or the sound of laughing childish voices coming from the next room. Nonsense of course. The result of a wobbly tummy, plus the excitement of moving into her new home.
Perhaps it would be better to get out more, join a literary appreciation group or something. After all she was now at that time of life when one wanted to be taken out of oneself—whatever that might mean—and it was most important not to pander to—well—fancies. She could remember one or two lukewarm friends who had gone distinctly funny after entering the fifties.
She joined the Ladies’ Tuesday Afternoon Group, where the latest TV program (if it were decent), the prime minister’s latest misdemeanor, the prospect of an atomic war and other worthwhile subjects were discussed. As Celia prided herself on being an outspoken person who was not afraid of expressing her opinion, she had soon dethroned the current chairperson and made herself extremely unpopular, which as everyone knows, is the seal of success.
Then she took to attending evening classes, organized by the local county council, where she became proficient in basket-making, early Victorian letter writing, pottery and raising a garden in window boxes.
All this activity kept her as active as anyone could wish—or in many cases would want—and succeeded in taking her out of herself in no uncertain manner. There was no time for morbid fancies and hence no danger of her going distinctly funny.
For a while at any rate.
Basket-making became a boring pastime, early Victorian letter writers revealed themselves to be nothing more than persons with a penchant for not using one word when ten would do; pottery was a messy business, and as she already had an extensive garden, raising one in window boxes was a waste of time. Moreover the Ladies’ Tuesday Afternoon Group grew restless under her dictatorship, successfully organized a palace revolution, replaced her as chairperson by the wife of a coal merchant, which in effect meant she was sent into exile.
So it was that once again—as the time honored expression has it—time hung heavily on her hands, and she took to sitting in a comfortable armchair, trying to read a novel, which inevitably slipped from her hands, when she sank into a shallow sleep.
Almost every time she was awakened by tiny fingers tugging at her skirt, or the sound of laughing childish voices coming from the next room. But she could no longer say with hand on heart: “Nonsense of course.”
Sometimes the tugging—the childish laughter took place when she was on the verge of awakening. She was in fact almost fully aware that four or five children were involved, possibly two by her knees and three in the next room. On occasion they made quite a clamor and it was this that rocketed her up from the pit of sleep, hurtled her into full awareness—then all sound and tugging stopped.
The phenomenon had an eerie effect, became more than a little disturbing and Celia again began to wonder if she was indeed becoming distinctly funny and if the house, after all, was going to suit her.
Then she began to see. Only a glimpse at first.
After a particularly noisy session, shrill laughter, stamping of feet, the slamming of a door, plus violent tugging, Celia cried out, opened her eyes, then fell back in her chair.
She had a glimpse of a tiny figure attired in a white dress disappearing round a door frame. A fleeting vision that might have been a vestige of a dream, or maybe an illusion created by the wakening brain (always supposing that organ ever sleeps), there were all manner of explanations, but when this last occurrence was matched up with the sounds, one’s wondering invaded a new plane of conjecture.
A few days later she was permitted more than a glimpse. A good long look.
Sleeping again, but this time in her bed, with a bedside lamp sending a golden circle of light across the room, for the eerie, distinctly funny disturbances made total and even partial darkness unpleasant, to say the least. Lying on her left side, cheek nestled deeply in a plump pillow, her eyes sprang open, and she saw a child, a little girl, standing a few feet away, looking at her, attired in a white dress, with auburn hair groomed into tight ringlets, hanging down to her shoulders. Dark, limpid eyes gazed into her own and for a while it seemed as if time was frozen and Celia Watson would spend eternity staring at a child, while cold fear crept slowly up from her feet, like the soul-releasing chill that announces the approach of death.
Perhaps that good long look lasted two minutes—or five seconds—but it seemed as if time had stood still before the child vanished—ceased to be—became as never was.
But its image remained imprinted on Celia’s brain, persisted in lurking behind her eyes, and when she closed the lids, there it was standing against a blazing red background.
Fearful to look upon, dreadful to consider—but—appealing.
When fear had unlocked its shackles, Celia leapt out of bed, ran out on to the landing and raced into the bathroom, this being a sure place of refuge back in the innocent days of childhood, it being assumed that no one would dare invade its privacy once the engaged bolt had been slid into position. So far as she could remember experience had never disproved this theory.
Seated on the lavatory pan she gave the matter her full attention and came to the conclusion that she might have over-reacted to the situation, fearsome though the experience had been. Had not her late, extremely wise Papa always maintained: “There is always a rational explanation for every extraordinary experience if only we take the trouble to look for it.”
Therefore it stood to reason there was a rational explanation for all these sounds and visions, be they ghosts ...
Celia shuddered on the lavatory seat and regurgitated that horrible little word:
“Ghosts!”
Her old new house was haunted!
She had never thought about ghosts before, save on the occasion when she read The Turn of the Screw by Henry James, and that did rather offer a rational explanation. The governess might have been distinctly funny. Had anyone asked her: “Do you believe in ghosts?” the answer undoubtedly would have been a head shaking “don’t know,” which might have been a cover up for: “Maybe I do.”
Now, sitting on the lavatory pan, she most certainly did.
She must leave the newly acquired house at the very break of day and never come back. Get the nice estate agent to put it on the market, then buy a well appointed flat nearer town. That was what she must do.<
br />
Most certainly.
She shifted her behind into a more comfortable position and gave the matter some more thought.
“Why?”
Why give up this lovely new-old house, just because of some noisy ghost children?
After all, they only seemed to manifest when she was on the point of waking up and that surely could be borne. Repetition was already veneering the phenomenon with the gloss of familiarity, which in due course might well breed a kind of contempt.
Children? She should have had children if only their production had not necessitated a rather revolting physical function. Now she might acquire some without any effort on anyone’s part: children that did not require feeding, clothing, cosseting, washing or any other beastly service.
Dream children. Ghostly waifs.
Celia rose from the lavatory pan, automatically pulled the chain, then bravely walked out of the bathroom. She crossed the landing and stood (for no particular reason) looking down over the banisters. She cleared her throat three times, before calling out in a sing-song voice: times, before calling out in a sing-song voice:
“Come on ... children. Come to mummy. Come to mummy.”
This language had always worked with a kitten she had once owned, but the ghost children seemed to be unimpressed. Not a sight or sound greeted eye or ear and presently Celia went back to bed, there surprisingly to fall into a deep sleep and not awake until the morning sun had turned the window into a golden square.
“Ghost children,” Miss Broadfield-Blythe said gently, tapping Celia’s knee with a pointed forefinger, “are the most harmless of wraiths. You see, my dear, they are seeking love.”
Celia refilled her guest’s cup and replaced a blue woollen cozy on the teapot.
“Is that so?”
“Indeed it is. No doubt during their brief lives they never experienced that precious emotion and are now spending eternity looking for it.”
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