The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 20

by Stephen Jones (ed. )

  She could remember the place as if she’d visited it only yesterday. Surely Prentiss’ housemates would have changed a few times by now, but she knew his room would look exactly the same. The last time she’d been inside, there had been newspaper clippings stuck to the walls, stories about environmental disasters, nuclear meltdowns, landmark buildings crumbling into dereliction.

  Prentiss’ obsession with social decay had been only the start of it. From there, his preoccupations had taken a darker turn. When the books about atrocities had turned up on his shelves, Emma had finally spoken out and begged him to talk to a doctor. It wasn’t natural, she claimed, to read constantly about the Holocaust, Bosnian war crimes, the muddied hell of First World War trenches.

  Prentiss had explained it all away by saying that modern society needed to embrace the darkness at its core, if only to prevent that darkness from taking hold of us all over again. To stop it reaching through the gaps to pull us down.

  Thinking about all of this, Emma almost walked away. Her hand hovered over the doorbell, and she conducted an interior argument with herself as to whether or not she should return to Nicci’s and order a Chinese takeaway.

  The door opened. A figure stood well back from the threshold, visible only as shadow, and beckoned her inside. “Hurry,” said the shadow. “Come on in.”

  It was Prentiss. He’d been waiting for her.

  “I thought you might not come,” he said as she followed him along a damp, badly decorated hallway. The stairs creaked ominously as they climbed to his room, but Emma was beyond being nervous under such conditions. Prentiss was a shred of the man he’d used to be. His clothes hung on him like rags, his hair was thinning at the scalp, and his skin had taken on a sickly yellow sheen. He looked ill, and Emma knew that if things got out of hand she could easily send him to the floor with a well-placed right-hook.

  “I thought you might be . . . better,” she said, following him into his room, the interior of which proved her prognosis to be utterly without foundation.

  Prentiss sat on the bed, clearing a space with his hand. Papers scattered to the floor, but he made no move to pick them up. Emma could see they were covered in scrawled notes, unintelligible handwritten theories that still had a grip on his mind.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said, smiling nervously. As he was now, Emma had great difficulty understanding exactly what it was about him that had attracted her in the first place. He was a shell, a self-abused puppet flopping on severed strings.

  Suddenly she became aware of the smell – a damp, flat odour that was difficult to place. Then, when she saw the state of what parts of the walls and ceiling remained visible, she realized what it was. Wet plaster. Opened plastic pots of Polyfilla repair paste and crack sealant sat on the windowsill, battered cutlery sticking up out of the white doughy mass within.

  Prentiss had been filling cracks. The stuff hung in abstract stalactites from the ceiling, in frozen drips down the walls. Any crack – however superficial – had been stuffed and inexpertly covered with the malleable material and left to set.

  If it were not for his debauched and denuded appearance, Emma would have fled. But even now, in this vastly reduced state, he still retained a magnetic pull on her emotions. She gravitated towards him, even though the stench of urine and halitosis that rose from him in a cloud made her want to back away. He cut a pathetic figure in his stained T-shirt and ripped black jeans. His torso flashed white and spare under the baggy clothing. Emma had never seen him so thin. He looked positively malnourished.

  “Why did you ask me here?” She thought a direct approach might at least yield one or two vaguely coherent answers.

  Prentiss stood up from the mattress, a hand going up under his shirt to scratch a dry sore on his concave belly. Emma drew in a breath; as he turned, she could clearly define his ribs and the vicious ripple of spine through the scant covering of skin and atrophied muscle. Prentiss, she realized, was visibly wasting away.

  “One of my housemates knows your sister – he drinks in the pub where she sometimes does shifts behind the bar. I knew you were coming, Emma . . . I’m sorry. I needed to talk to someone, and you were the only one who ever believed me. The only one who listened.”

  “I never believed you.” The truth was her only recourse now; Prentiss had been fooling himself for too long and she no longer wanted to be complicit in the deception. “All I ever did was humour you. And when you didn’t get the message, I left.”

  His smile was grim, like a widening crack that slowly crawled over the lower part of his waxy face. Emma had the insane urge to plug it with sealant from the tubs lined up on the floor by the end of the bed.

  “I see,” he said, sitting back down and rubbing the side of his head with an open palm, wincing as something – some undefined pain – bothered him. “I understand.”

  “You need help, Prent. You’ve needed it for a long time.”

  “Nobody can help me.” His face softened, becoming both more and less than the sharp angles of his bone structure. It was as if a form more solid than his features could hint at was trying to push through from inside his skull. “I’ve spent all these years looking for them, examining the gaps, and now that they’re finally here no one believes me.

  “They’re coming, Emma. Coming through the cracks.”

  Emma suddenly felt very afraid, not only for her own physical well-being, but also for her old boyfriend’s sanity. This was real madness, close to the bone and way out over the edge. Prentiss had completely lost his mind.

  “I’m going now,” she mumbled, slipping her hands into her pockets and trying to act like this situation was the most normal thing in the world. “I have to get back – Nicci will be wondering where I am.”

  Prentiss said nothing; just stared at a spot on the floor, eyes wide and seeing beyond the worn weave of the carpet.

  Emma opened the door and glanced back over her shoulder. Prentiss was now on his feet, moving slowly towards her, a large scrapbook held out like an offering. “Take it,” he said. “Please. Just take it and read what’s inside.”

  She turned to face him and took the book, smiling coldly as she stepped backwards through the door and out onto the landing. The door closed in her face; Prentiss did not pursue her out of the strange world that was his grubby double room. She took the stairs two at a time, forgetting about the book in her hand. Once out on the street, she ran towards the nearest Metro station, jumping the cracks in the pavement and praying that she would not have to wait long for a train.

  At some point during the journey, she remembered that she was holding the scrapbook. Carefully, as if she were handling some extremely fragile artefact, she opened the book. The pages were stained and dog-eared from overuse, and the narrow spine was torn. Inside were pasted articles from obscure periodicals, smudged prints of digital images downloaded from amateur Fortean websites, and yet more hand-written notes.

  Emma scanned a few of the articles, her blood seeming to thicken in her arteries.

  A report of a Djinn terrorizing a cave network somewhere in the desert outside Dubai in the United Arab Emirates. The caves were fed by underground streams that were part of some immense subterranean network of gulfs and chasms – cracks in the belly of the earth.

  An earthquake in Argentina, and the subsequent sightings of a strange spider-limbed demon prowling in the foothills of some local mountains.

  Cave divers reported missing in the Yorkshire Dales.

  Babies stolen from a hospital in Mexico, whose basement was recently damaged in a terrorist bomb blast, the foundations splitting open to reveal a deep underground crevasse.

  They were coming. Coming through the cracks.

  Emma shook her head, trying to dislodge Prentiss’ crazy statement. This was not evidence; it was merely random information used to support his own delusion, a framework upon which he could hang his fantasies. You could prove anything to yourself if you were desperate enough, even this utter nonsense.

&nb
sp; When she eventually made it back to Nicci’s place, Emma remained withdrawn and pensive until it was time for her nephews to go to bed. Then she read them a bedtime story before soaking in a hot bath. She lay in the steaming tub with her eyes open, staring at the ceiling. There was a crack above the toilet she’d not noticed the day before.

  Her aimless dozing was interrupted by a knock on the door; Nicci’s voice drifted in to break her reverie: “Em, you okay? Can I come in?”

  “No, I’m fine. Really. Just a bit down after seeing Prentiss. But you can rest easy. It’s over. I won’t be seeing him again.”

  “Okay, hon. I’m here to talk if you need me.”

  Emma glanced over at the scrapbook she’d balanced on the rim of the sink. She almost called Nicci back, asked her to look at what was inside the tatty covers. But no, to do so would have felt too much like willingly entering Prentiss’ nightmares. The only cracks she knew of were the ones in his sanity.

  Bath time over, she dried herself off and went to bed, looking forward to the end of her stay. She was due to return to London the next day and any enjoyment she’d taken from the trip had been tarnished by her communication with Prentiss. Even now, he was able to ruin small parts of her life, and she resented the power he had over her.

  “I’ll miss you,” said Nicci, holding her tight on the doorstep. “Come back soon, big sis.”

  Emma returned the hug, and wished that she felt more like staying; it would cost her nothing to extend her trip, to spend more quality time with her family, but right now the thought of leaving Prentiss’ ever-widening circle of influence seemed like a very good idea. “I’ll be back at Christmas,” she said. “In three weeks time. I promise.”

  Olly and Jared followed her outside, trailing her along the street as she headed for the Metro. They were good boys, full of life and energy, and she brushed away a tear as they ran off towards the park, waving and calling her name. Even Jared had seemed sad to see her go.

  The next train was delayed by ten minutes, and Emma felt herself drawn to her mobile phone. She took it out of her pocket, dialled Prentiss’ number, but didn’t press the button to connect the call. She repeated this procedure three more times before finally giving in to temptation.

  The phone rang out at the other end. No one was home.

  Feeling deeply uneasy, Emma checked her watch. The London train wasn’t scheduled to leave Newcastle until 3:00 pm. It was just after one. If she was quick, she could call in on him, just to check that he hadn’t done anything foolish.

  The train arrived. She got on, knowing exactly at which station she’d disembark. She made it to the house in plenty of time, telling herself that all she was planning to do was check on Prentiss’ well-being. If he’d had an accident, or even tried to kill himself, she would never be able to look at herself in the mirror again. Despising her own weakness, and his passive strength, she rang the doorbell.

  The door opened and a stranger stepped outside. “Oh, hi,” he said, pulling a woollen hat down over his shaven head. “You here to visit someone?”

  “Yes, Prentiss O’Neil.” She realized this must be one of the people he shared the house with.

  “Ah. I think the queer bugger’s still in his room. I haven’t seen him for days. If he is in, tell him he owes me fifty quid for the gas bill, would you.” Then he was gone, jogging along the street towards the bus stop outside a tiny video rental shop that, judging by the window display, seemed only to stock titles she’d never heard of.

  Emma pushed open the door and went inside, wiping her feet on the threadbare doormat. The house was silent; a stale heaviness hung in the air. She climbed the stairs to Prentiss’ first floor room and knocked on his door, her touch lighter than intended. When no answer came, she knocked again, louder this time. The door swung open under the increased pressure from her knuckles.

  Emma took a step inside, smelling that same dry yet moist odour and sensing that something was very wrong. Something crunched under her feet. The room was dark, with the blinds pulled over the single window, and it looked in even worse disarray than during her last visit.

  “Prent. You here?” She expected no reply, and none came.

  There was a naked figure kneeling on the bed, its body turned to face the wall. It was male – she could at least make out that pertinent detail in the gloom – and his hands were flattened against the peeling wallpaper. Drawing closer, she noticed that the floor was covered in a layer of crumbled plaster; the cracks Prentiss had crudely attempted to repair had opened up, shedding their DIY skin.

  “Prent?” She could tell it was him from the familiar curvature of his spine, and the small tattoo of a rose on his left shoulder.

  “What the hell—?”

  She stopped in the centre of the room, poised to take another step but not quite managing it.

  From this angle it looked as if he had tried to force his head into the long diagonal crack in the wall that ran in a jagged line from the corner of the window frame. She could see the soles of his feet on the bed, his legs, taut and skinny, his pallid back, his neck . . . but nothing above that.

  Then, with growing horror, she realized her mistake.

  Prentiss had not stuck his head into the crack; the crack had spread across the wall, passing through flesh and bone to shear off most of his head above the jaw-line. Prentiss’ skull had become part of the fracture, a jagged black rent through which only darkness could be viewed.

  As Emma watched, the wall around the crack seemed to shiver and the area of damage widened. Its messy Rorscharch edges sent out spidery limbs to breach plasterboard and brickwork and splinter the dead matter of Prentiss’ rigid torso.

  The crack was growing; something was trying to climb out.

  Emma ran from the room, slamming the door to shut the monstrosity inside. She stumbled to the station and jumped on the first train to arrive, heading into the heart of the city. Perhaps safety lay in numbers, surrounded by crowds. But there were cracks everywhere – cracks in buildings, in road surfaces, even in people.

  When she reached the station she sat in a glassed-walled waiting room under a row of stark fluorescent bulbs. At least where there was too much light she would see them coming, be alerted to their presence before they reached her. She pulled up her feet onto the bench, listening to the groan of plastic, hoping that it would not break. Or crack.

  TIM LEBBON

  * * *

  Falling Off the World

  TIM LEBBON IS A New York Times best-selling writer from South Wales. He has had almost twenty novels published to date, including The Island, The Map of Moments (with Christopher Golden), Bar None, Fallen, Hellboy: The Fire Wolves, Dusk and Berserk, as well as scores of novellas and short stories.

  Lebbon has won three British Fantasy Awards, a Bram Stoker Award and a Scribe Award, and has also been a finalist for the International Horror Guild Award and the World Fantasy Award. In 2004, Fangoria magazine named him “One of the 13 Rising Talents Who Promise to Keep Us Terrified for the Next 25 years”. So, no pressure then.

  Several of his novels and novellas are currently in development as movies in the US and UK, and he is working on some new novels, screenplays and a TV series.

  “I’ve always wondered how many helium-filled balloons you’d have to give someone before they lifted off,” he explains. “There’s that wonderful apocryphal story about a man tying hundreds to a deck-chair and drifting up into the airlines’ flight paths with nothing more than a four-pack and a pin to ensure his descent.

  “But I got to thinking what else could be up there, just floating around, and how perhaps the sky isn’t as empty as it first appears.”

  AT FIRST THEY ALL CAME running after her, panic sewn onto their faces and a stitch in their sides. She could have been a stone plucked from a pond in defiance of gravity and they were the ripples in reverse, flowing in from all direction to the point of her egress. All colours, all shades, sunburnt or pale, bald or long-haired, they ran with their hands h
eld out to catch the trailing rope.

  She had not been lifted that high yet, and the end of the rope still kissed the ground below her, drawing a snaking trail in the dusty ground surrounding the lush field. One man leapt and missed it by a finger; he stumbled and fell, and Holly smiled. Dust rose around him in a cartoon halo. A woman managed to grab the rope but then let go, screeching as it ripped through her hand and burned the skin. She blew on her palm, and Holly laughed out loud, waiting for the smoke and fire. Other people jumped for the rope and missed, and somewhere a woman screamed.

  But by then the breeze had Holly held in its breath, and one great gust clasped the balloon and made her truly airborne. Holly looked up at the balloon but that made her dizzy, so she looked down at the ground again, at the people slowing from a run to a walk behind her, and then from a walk to a standstill, hands on hips, faces pointed skyward but darkening quickly as their owners looked down to their own level again. Some of them turned and walked away, shaking their heads as if forgetting what they had been doing. Others started chatting now that circumstance had brought them unexpectedly together. One face remained aimed up at Holly. The shape waved its arms over its head, and she heard a distant voice. She did not understand the words. They were of the ground and she was of the air, and the language was wholly alien.

  She drifted westward towards where the sun would set in a couple of hours, and thought that maybe she would beat it there. It hung high in the sky before her, a smudged yellow behind the hazy cloud cover. It was so slow. She concentrated on the sky next to it, trying to detect the sun’s movement out of the corner of her eye, but it must have known she was looking because it did not move. There was no way it would beat her. She was travelling so fast. The wind had her firmly in its grasp now, tugging hard at the flabby pink balloon above her, dragging it across the sky and leaving only a trail of her sighs behind.