The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 16

by Stephen Jones

  He took another sip of coffee and swilled it around his mouth, getting rid of the final lingering taste of scotch. Why he should be dredging up those memories again he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t thought about them for years. But now they were back pushing their way to the forefront of his mind, and he wondered what had triggered them.

  * * *

  Louise didn’t see the boy again for a number of days, though she continued to pick up the binoculars on occasion and search the marsh and beyond, hoping to catch sight of him.

  The following Thursday Tom took the Land Rover into town to get the window fixed. He’d repaired it with a sheet of thick polythene, but that was only a stopgap, and as autumn gradually eased its way towards winter, he couldn’t delay the inevitable. The Land Rover window would take a hefty chunk out of their monthly budget, and these days they had to be careful with their money. The marsh warden’s job paid a good deal less than his previous position, and Louise’s income was, by its nature, sporadic; but the vehicle was not only necessary in his job, it was also their lifeline, their means of getting to town to bring supplies back to the isolated cottage. It had to be attended to.

  Once the window of the Land Rover was fixed he intended to go and see his employer at the local council office to discuss plans for a picnic area that the council, in their wisdom, had decided would draw sightseers to the area. “To their death, more like,” Tom grumbled when he told Louise about the plan.

  She watched him go, waving from the gate, until he turned the corner at the end of the lane, then she went back to the house. In her study she taped a fresh piece of paper to the drawing board and sat for a moment waiting for inspiration to strike. She picked up her pencil and made a few exploratory lines on the page, but her mind remained exasperatingly barren.

  Pushing herself away from the board in frustration she went across to the filing cabinet in the corner to rummage through the folders of photographs and clippings from magazines – her source material. But she could find nothing to inspire her. She couldn’t remember the last time she was blocked like this. Usually the muse that sat on her shoulder rose to the challenge of virgin paper and fed her something with which to fill it. But today the muse was obstinately silent. Perhaps she was asleep.

  Louise slid the drawer back into the cabinet and crossed to the window. She reached for the binoculars and stopped.

  The boy was standing in the back garden, staring up at the window. She smiled slightly when she saw he was wearing her waxed jacket. Her instincts had been right.

  She hurried from the room and down the stairs, hoping he would still be there when she reached the garden.

  He was.

  He took a step backwards as she opened the back door and stepped outside, but other than that he didn’t seem alarmed by her appearance.

  She stood still, facing him. She’d never seen anybody with skin so white and hair so fair. Almost albino, but the eyes were dark – deep black pools that regarded her with something like wry amusement.

  “Hello,” she said softly, worried that if she raised her voice much above a whisper the boy might take flight.

  He said nothing but continued to stare for a moment then made a quick beckoning motion with his hand, turned and walked slowly to the gate that led onto the marsh. At the gate he stopped, turned to look at her and beckoned again.

  “I can’t go with you,” she said. “I’ve work to do,” she added unconvincingly.

  He didn’t move.

  “Let me get my coat and lock the house,” she continued, curiosity beating her reservations into submission.

  When she returned to the garden he hadn’t moved, but as she drew close he turned and strode out into the marsh.

  He moved with a curious grace, like a pale deer, sure-footed, without effort, picking his way between the muddy pools and hopping from tussock to tussock with the confidence that comes from long familiarity.

  Louise followed as best she could, trying to keep in his footsteps, trying hard to avoid the murky pools that threatened to suck the shoes from her feet, to grab her legs and draw her down into the mire.

  A mist had blown in from the sea, and the further she got into the marsh the thicker the haze became. Occasionally she lost sight of him altogether and she had to call out, to urge him to wait for her. He’d appear out of the swirls of drizzle, a small smile playing on his lips, waiting for her to almost, but never quite, catch up to him.

  I must be mad, she thought, as she picked her way through the morass. Tom would be furious if he knew what she was doing. But Tom would be away all morning, and probably much of the afternoon.

  She stopped and looked back, but the mist had closed in behind her like thick gauze curtains, hiding the house. She had no choice now. She had to follow the boy. She’d never find her way back home, and the thought of wandering around in the lethal marsh frightened her.

  Ahead of her appeared a small wooden-built hut. It was ramshackle, its palings worn and rotted, the roofing-felt split and curling over the front of the hut. There were no windows but a narrow horizontal slit at the front gave away its purpose. It was a bird-watcher’s hide. A place for avian enthusiasts to decamp and mount their cameras and binoculars in the hope of catching a glimpse of the rare and endangered birds that made the marsh their home.

  The boy was standing in front of the hide, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, waiting for her. When she was within six feet of him he ducked around the side of the hut and disappeared.

  She jumped over a small boggy pool, stumbled and reached out to the wall of the hut to steady herself. The rough wood split under her touch and tiny splinters embedded themselves in her hand. She sucked in her breath and then swore. Finding the ground firm under her feet, she moved round in the direction the boy had taken.

  There was no sign of him. It was as if the mist had swallowed him.

  She called out and strained to hear a reply, but the air was silent, oppressively silent, as if a blanket had been thrown over the world, killing all sound. She reached the door of the hut and pushed it open, but it was empty; the only sign of human habitation being a discarded crisp packet and several empty soft drink cans. She fought down a swell of panic and hurried outside. She called again, and this time there was a response.

  A small girl stepped out. She was five or six years old, her hair as white as the boy’s and her limbs as thin, if not thinner than his. She looked emaciated and Louise felt a surge of pity. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said, crouching down to the girl’s level, trying to reassure her with her body language that she presented no threat to her.

  The child stood, unmoving, watching her with a mildly curious expression. Like the boy she was dressed in rags, the material threadbare and filthy, torn in places, allowing Louise to catch glimpses of the unnaturally pale flesh beneath.

  The girl wound a strand of white hair around her thumb and pushed the whole lot into her mouth.

  “I won’t hurt you,” Louise said, and held out her arms. She just wanted to hug the child, to reassure her, and to carry her back home. She needed to report this to the proper authorities. For a child of this age to be allowed to get in this state was nothing short of criminal. If the parents were around here, she would have no compunction in telling them exactly what she thought of their parenting skills.

  The little girl moved forward so gracefully it was almost as if she was gliding over the muddy grass. To her horror Louise noticed the little girl’s feet were bare, wet mud squelching up between her toes.

  When she was within reach, Louise closed her arms around the girl in a tight embrace and stood upright, lifting the child off her feet. She was feather-light, insubstantial like the mist that surrounded them. The girl wrapped her arms around Louise’s neck, pulling herself in closer, as if craving the warmth of Louise’s body. She buried her face into the protective shoulder, nuzzling close against Louise’s breast.

  The bite, when it came, was so shocking and so painful, that for a moment Louise just s
tood there, feeling the pain, and the tickling motion of a tiny tongue flicking over the wound.

  With a cry she pushed the child away from her, holding her at arm’s length, staring questioningly into the watery blue eyes. The expression on the little girl’s face was serene as she licked her blood-specked lips. There was no malice there, no malevolence.

  And suddenly Louise understood why she’d been brought here. With tears streaming down her face she hugged the child close to her again and let her feed.

  Tom arrived home at about 2:00 p.m., slamming the door behind him, and walked into the lounge, a string of expletives issuing from his mouth. The meeting with the council had not gone well. Their decision to site the picnic area on the edge of one of the most treacherous stretches of marsh was, in his opinion, sheer folly, but his protests were met with bland bureaucratic platitudes. “After all, Mr Henderson, you are only warden on the marsh. Should anything happen, which we sincerely doubt will, you would not be held responsible. And we must look at the broader picture. The shops and cafés in the area that would undoubtedly benefit from an influx of fresh revenue.”

  He’d given up at that point. He knew that financial kickbacks and promises of favours had been made, and that the decision had already been taken.

  Louise listened to his tirade of several minutes before saying, “Why don’t you sit down, calm down, and I’ll make us a cup of tea?”

  He flopped into an armchair with a sigh. She was right, as usual. He’d taken this job to escape stress, not to immerse himself again in battles he had no hope of winning. “How’s your day been?” he called.

  “Interesting,” she called back from the kitchen. She was wearing a high rolled-neck sweater to hide the bite marks on her chest and neck, but the chenille was irritating the wounds, making them itch. “I’ll tell you about it later,” she added.

  He sank back in the chair and closed his eyes, letting the tension ebb from his body.

  “You’re going grey,” she said. She was standing behind him holding two steaming mugs of tea.

  He glanced up at her. “Is it any wonder, after the day I’ve had?” He held her eyes for a moment. “You’re being serious, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “I’d never noticed before, but there are definitely a few silver ones threading their way through now.”

  “Shit!” he said, and pushed himself to his feet, crossing to the mirror and pulling his hair this way and that. It was more than just a couple of stray premature greys. Silver strands made up about a quarter of the brown untidy thatch that covered his head. He was sure they hadn’t been there this morning when he’d been drying his hair after the shower, but then he hadn’t been looking for them.

  “But I’m only thirty-five. It’s a bit young for all this.”

  “I think it’s dead sexy,” she said, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. “After you’ve had your tea, do you fancy coming for a walk?”

  “A walk? Where?”

  “On the marsh. I made an interesting discovery today. I’d like to show you.”

  He shrugged. “Fine.” Then he thought for a moment. “You haven’t been walking around out there on your own, have you? I did warn you . . .”

  “It’s all right. I had company. Finish your tea. I’ll tell you as we walk.”

  An east wind had kicked up and blown the mist back out to sea. As they picked their way through the marsh Tom checked his watch. “This’d better not take long. We’ve only got two hours of daylight at the most. We’ll never find our way back in the dark, and I really don’t fancy calling the rescue services to come and find us.” He patted his jacket pocket, feeling the reassuring bulge of his mobile phone. He’d brought it along as a precaution, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

  “Not far now. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find it on my own, but it all seems so familiar.”

  He slipped from a tussock of grass and buried his boot in the mud to the ankle. He swore savagely and yanked it free, groaning as water seeped over the top of the leather and soaked his sock. “You still haven’t explained what we’re doing here.”

  She glanced back at him, an annoyingly enigmatic smile on her face. “No, I didn’t, did I? Wait and see.”

  “Bugger that!” he said and stopped walking. “You either explain or I’m going back.”

  She looked at him steadily, trying to decide whether or not he was bluffing. There was steel in his eyes and his chin jutted forwards pugnaciously. She decided not to call his bluff. “It was the boy,” she said simply. “He came to the house earlier . . . He was wearing my Barbour,” she added, a fond smile spreading over her lips.

  “So he was the lout who smashed my window. When you see him again you might like to get the money out of him to pay for it.”

  “That doesn’t matter now,” she said. The wind was cold, and cut through the thin material of her jacket, but she didn’t feel cold. A mixture of excitement and adrenaline was warming her from within. “It’s all so perfectly clear to me.”

  “What is?”

  “The reason we’re here. The real reason you took the job.”

  He sighed. “I took the job because it was the only thing I could find that would take me completely out of the rat race. And that’s the reason . . . the real reason.”

  “But we were guided. Call it providence, fate, whatever you like, but you were destined to find and take that job, and we were destined to come to this place together. Come on,” she said, starting to walk again. “Just a little bit further.”

  He shook his head but followed.

  “And don’t think I haven’t noticed your hand,” she said as she walked. “I know you’ve been trying to hide it from me. But that’s all part of it, don’t you see?”

  He flexed the fingers of the hand that was completely numb now, and almost bleached white.

  “And your hair. Can’t you see what’s happening to us?”

  “All I can see is that you’re leading us on some wild goose chase, and that you’re starting to sound deranged.”

  She laughed. “O ye of little faith,” she said. “Look, just up ahead.”

  The hide was a few hundred yards ahead of them.

  “That old place,” he said incredulously. “But it’s derelict. I checked it out a few days ago. You haven’t seriously brought me out here to see . . .”

  She hushed him. “Keep your voice down. You’ll scare her.”

  “Scare who?” he said, but she was starting to run now and the wind whipped the words from his lips and carried them across the marsh and out to sea. He was sure she hadn’t heard him.

  They reached the hide together, Tom having to sprint to catch up with her. She held out her arm to stop him going any further. “Quiet now,” she said, putting her finger to her lips.

  He said nothing, alarmed at her behaviour, but curious to see how this was going to resolve itself. He felt a wetness in his palm and looked down. The bandage on his wrist was crimson where the wound had opened and started to bleed again. He brought his wrist up and hugged it to his chest, but there was no pain, just a curious pulling sensation, as if unseen hands were plucking at the bandage.

  Louise was calling softly. “It’s me. I’ve come back, just like I said I would. Are you there?”

  For a moment there was absolute stillness and absolute silence. Then came the sound of a footfall from behind a stand of trees. Louise reached back and gripped his arm excitedly. “She’s here.” Then she slipped off her jacket and pulled off her sweater.

  He saw the bite marks for the first time. “Louise!” he said, but a movement in front of them distracted his attention as a small, filthy girl stepped out from behind the shelter of the trees. She was dressed in rags and her white hair hung in rat’s tails. Louise sank to her knees and held out her arms. The girl ran forward, casting furtive glances at Tom who stood, open-mouthed, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing.

  The girl fell into Louise’s embrace, buried her face int
o Louise’s neck, tongue reaching for the raw flesh.

  With a cry Tom lashed out with his foot, catching the girl in the chest and knocking her out of his wife’s arms. The girl landed on her back on the spongy ground, and with a guttural snarl rolled over onto her hands and knees, poised, ready to leap at him.

  He grabbed Louise roughly by the arm and hauled her to her feet. “Run!” he said, striding out onto the marsh. “Run now!”

  She was resisting him, sobbing. “Tom, no!”

  He took no notice. All he wanted to do was to get them as far away from this place as possible. He was dragging her along behind him, oblivious to her protests, yanking her impatiently if she stumbled. “It’s why we’re here,” she cried. “Don’t you see?”

  He glanced back at her and stopped dead. The colour had drained from her hair, leaving it a stark white. Even as he watched, the weight seemed to be falling away from her body. He stared, transfixed, as her skin bleached and grew translucent. He let go of her arm, as if it were something alien.

  She stood erect, tossing back her pale hair. “Don’t you see?”

  He felt a sharp pain in his thigh. The little girl had attached herself to his leg, gnawing through the denim of his jeans, seeking out the life-giving flesh beneath. He knocked her away and started to run again, but had gone no more than two paces when bony hands exploded from the mud and gripped his ankles.

  Around him the marsh bubbled and heaved as figures emerged from its depths. Pale, skeletal figures, their parchment skin streaked with earth and weed. Ten, twenty of them, rising from the mud pools to stand, surrounding him.