A Book of Horrors

by Stephen King

  Sixteen-year-old Cherry was the prettiest girl in Zennor, not that she knew it. One day while walking on the moor she met a young man as handsome as she was lovely.

  ‘Will you come with me?’ he asked, and held out a beautiful lace handkerchief to entice her. ‘I’m a widower with an infant son who needs tending. I’ll pay you better wages than any man or woman earns from here to Kenidjack Castle, and give you dresses that will be the envy of every girl at Morvah Fair.’

  Now, Cherry had never had a penny in her pocket in her entire young life, so she let the young man take her arm and lead her across the moor …

  There were no echoes here of The Sun Battles, no vertiginous terrors of darkness and the abyss; just a folk tale that reminded Jeffrey a bit of Rip Van Winkle, with Cherry caring for the young son and, as the weeks passed, falling in love with the mysterious man.

  Each day she put ointment on the boy’s eyes, warned by his father never to let a drop fall upon her own, until of course one day she couldn’t resist doing so, and saw an entire host of gorgeously-dressed men and women moving through the house around her, including her mysterious employer and a beautiful woman who was obviously his wife. Bereft and betrayed, Cherry fled; her lover caught up with her on the moor and pressed some coins into her hand.

  ‘You must go now and forget what you have seen,’ he said sadly, and touched the corner of her eye. When she returned home she found her parents dead and gone, along with everyone she knew, and her cottage a ruin open to the sky. Some say it is still a good idea to avoid the moors near Zennor.

  Jeffrey closed the book and dropped it on the floor beside the tub. When he at last headed back down the corridor, he heard voices from the kitchen, and Thomsa’s voice raised in laughter. He didn’t go downstairs; only returned to his room and locked the door behind him.

  He left early the next morning, after sharing breakfast with Thomsa at the kitchen table.

  ‘Harry’s had to go to St Ives to pick up some tools he had repaired.’ She poured Jeffrey more coffee and pushed the cream across the table towards him. ‘Did you have a nice ramble yesterday and go to the Tinners?’

  Jeffrey smiled but said nothing. He was halfway up the winding driveway back to Cardu before he realised he’d forgotten to mention the two bottles of beer.

  He returned the rental car and got a ride to the station from Evan, the same man who’d picked him up two days earlier.

  ‘Have a good time in Zennor?’

  ‘Very nice,’ said Jeffrey.

  ‘Quiet this time of year.’ Evan pulled the car to the curb. ‘Looks like your train’s here already.’

  Jeffrey got out, slung his bag over his shoulder and started for the station entrance. His heart sank when he saw two figures arguing on the sidewalk a few yards away, one a policeman.

  ‘Come on now, Erthy,’ he was saying, glancing up as Jeffrey drew closer. ‘You know better than this.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ she shouted, and kicked at him. ‘Not my fucking name!’

  ‘That’s it.’

  The policeman grabbed her wrist and bent his head to speak into a walkie-talkie. Jeffrey began to hurry past. The woman screamed after him, shaking her clenched fist. Her eye with its bloody starburst glowed crimson in the morning sun.

  ‘London!’ Her voice rose desperately as she fought to pull away from the cop. ‘London, please, take me—’

  Jeffrey shook his head. As he did, the woman raised her fist and flung something at him. He gasped as it stung his cheek, clapping a hand to his face as the policeman shouted and began to drag the woman away from the station.

  ‘London! London!’

  As her shrieks echoed across the plaza, Jeffrey stared at a speck of blood on his finger. Then he stooped to pick up what she’d thrown at him: a yellow pencil worn with toothmarks, its graphite tip blunted but the tiny, embossed black letters still clearly readable above the ferrule.

  RAVENWOOD.

  ELIZABETH HAND is the author of numerous multiple-award-winning, genre-spanning novels and collections of short fiction, as well as a long-time reviewer and critic for many publications.

  She has two novels coming out in 2012: Available Dark, a psychological thriller and follow-up to her Shirley Jackson Award-winner Generation Loss, and Radiant Days, a YA novel about the French poet Arthur Rimbaud.

  She lives on the coast of Maine, where she is at work on Wylding Hall, a YA suspense novel inspired by Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca.

  ‘I have a complicated relationship with West Penwith,’ explains Hand, ‘my favourite part of the UK (except, of course, for London). In 2000, I had to cancel an overseas journey at the last minute, the highlight of which was to be my third trip to West Penwith. Crushed by not being able to visit, I spent those three weeks home in Maine, writing “Cleopatra Brimstone”.

  ‘My next trip coincided with 2001’s devastating foot-and-mouth epidemic, which curtailed much of the research I’d intended to do – no tromping across the moors and open fields. A few years later, I once again had to cancel a trip to the countryside near Zennor. And, while in London in March 2011, two days before my now much-delayed return to Cornwall, I learned that my oldest and closest friend had suffered a brain aneurysm, was in a coma and not expected to recover. Eerily, just days before my friend was stricken, I’d begun a story – this one – with the protagonist’s beloved wife dying of a brain aneurysm. I did go to West Penwith, though the trip was inevitably overshadowed by grief. My friend died the day I returned to the US.

  ‘All of the events recounted by Evelyn, involving an impromptu ritual and subsequent appearance of three spectral lights, actually occurred on March 12, 1971, to myself and two friends in Pound Ridge, New York. I have no more explanation for what happened than Jeffrey does in the story – less, in fact, because as far as I know there are no burial mounds off Long Ridge Road. Unless, of course, there are.’

  Last Words

  —RICHARD CHRISTIAN MATHESON—

  I SAVOUR a good moment of death.

  The stumbling exhalations of consciousness as the sufferer lingers and searches for final words; the poignant exit.

  Classic stuff.

  Demise can come with eyes tightly shut; far less interesting than with them open, spiritually scanning the cosmic path that awaits. Even in filmmaking, a final stare, upon passing, is always more evocative than lids fluttering which produces a lazy, maudlin finish. With eyes open, available light affixes to the unblinking stare and, though the effect is slightly unnerving, allows it to glow with heart-felt drama that approaches the lyrical.

  All deaths are different. The end can come via terror or nobility. Mostly it’s a trivial detour into eternity which is how most bid dull adieu. Still, however it comes, everyone is entitled to their final moment; a fitting segue to consider details:

  A simple stabbing, by way of example, doesn’t allow much time for reflection, especially if the blade interferes with airways. Too much blood loss. Always worse if awkwardly located for removal by its victim. In a similar way, final words are more manageable when the damage doesn’t directly affect cardiac function, vocalisation or mental acuity. Mortal injuries ranging from blunt trauma to partial evisceration can also aid in composing final thoughts. Blood loss is minimal enough to provide focus. Poison, owing to its often delayed effect, is also nicely collaborative, its slower impact inviting moments of review. In some cases it may also trigger eventual seizure in the expiring party, a convulsive response that can produce suffocation, adding unexpected gravitas to final words. In especially theatrical examples, the mouth will froth, which provides visual flourish; a value nearly cinematic.

  But crucially, whether by disease, mishap or tragedy, when the time comes, there is no turning back and any negotiation with the heavens is ill-spent energy. Last second desperation that consumes valuable time is no ally. Far more useful, as the pulse wanes, to think of final words. On that subject, some examples are shared here, drawn from quotes, gathered over years of encounters
with those who are short on time.

  Example one:

  ‘Oh, God, Mother, don’t let this happen to me! Please help me! I will always love you!’

  Spontaneous and appreciative, although there is a hint of the well-worn. Of course, everyone isn’t Shakespeare. When he died, maybe he wasn’t either.

  Another example:

  ‘It hurts … it hurts … I can’t believe how bad it hurts!’

  A triumph of the succinct. Almost musical. According to notes, that was a gunshot to both knees and three into the heart. Postscript: the deceased didn’t last long after that. Bled out all over the forest floor. They never found her.

  They rarely do.

  This next one is memorable:

  ‘… In the next world, I will never see such cruelty …’

  Stirring in its own way, like tormented Irish poetry. It could go well with tea. Minimal emotional indulgence; always notable. According to notes, he was duct-taped and a drill had been used on his skull.

  This one from 2004 is a favourite:

  ‘What did I do wrong?’

  Was there ever a more existential lament? Worthy of Camus. According to notes, acid was poured into his eyes and rectum. Philosophy flowed as he tried to flee.

  Let us take a moment to remind ourselves that most don’t think about the final thing they’ll say. Certainly, few know how they’ll die. But as in all movie death scenes, the telling close-up will come. And with any luck, someone may be near to witness the final utterance. No matter how they depart this deceiving world, most wish to be remembered. It’s therefore vital they consider their last words. At the stroke of midnight, it’s too late to assemble a worthy farewell and despite any torment they suffer, no matter how afraid, no matter how rapidly their blood empties, they mustn’t improvise. Pain is momentary. They have to get past those things. Take my word for it.

  To be avoided is the clumsy nonchalance some actors affect on the Oscars, fumbling with notes scribbled on napkins or, far worse, sputtering and hoping the heavens will rain eloquence. But the heavens don’t. They never did and never will; they are a fiction. Each person must provide their own finale. All books have an important final line. All movies have one. So should a life.

  I do love movies.

  A last piece of advice: know thyself. For example, I take lives because I enjoy hearing people suffer. I relish the begging and the sounds of helpless shock. Sometimes I wish I could make them myself.

  The best one I ever heard was:

  ‘You will suffer forever for what you’ve done.’

  She was a young mother, very pretty and genuine. I won’t go into the things I did to her with pliers and bleach, but I will say some people just don’t want to die and for the entire weekend she wouldn’t stop pleading or screaming. It was heaven.

  However, to set the record straight: she was mistaken. As it turns out, to the surprise and dismay of many, I do enjoy my life and look forward to every day, notwithstanding what some figured would happen. Losing my voice when I was two was a bad break. That’s all. Despite that animal cutting out my larynx when I wouldn’t stop crying, I never sought pity. I wanted to speak like others, but had to get over it. I never looked for sympathy and never from my mother, who was dead inside and let him fucking do it until my soft throat was so sawed-open my head slumped to one side and I couldn’t call out for help even though I tried and they just left me to fucking die.

  The last words I remember ever saying were ‘You hurt me, Dada …’

  Pathetic.

  The day I burned their house down and stood on the sidewalk listening to them beg and die, my life began, again. ‘Someone save us! We’re burning to death!’ Predictable. Selfish, blameless. So fucking them. It was my first saved quote.

  Sometimes when what’s left of my throat spasms and I can’t easily breathe or sleep, I watch the video recordings of the people I’ve killed. It’s like going to the movies. Tense; filled with twists.

  The last words are always the highlight.

  RICHARD CHRISTIAN MATHESON is a novelist, short story writer and screenwriter/producer. He is also the president of Matheson Entertainment, a production company he formed with his father, Richard Matheson, which is currently involved with multiple film and television projects.

  He has written and co-written feature film and television projects for Richard Donner, Ivan Reitman, Joel Silver, Steven Spielberg, Bryan Singer and many others. To date, Matheson has written and sold fourteen original spec feature scripts, which is considered a record.

  His credits include Sole Survivor, a four-hour Fox mini-series based on Dean Koontz’s bestselling novel; Delusion, an original horror suspense film for VH1; Demons, an original dark suspense film for Showtime Networks, and the adaptation of Roger Zelazny’s The Chronicles of Amber as a four-hour mini-series for the Syfy Channel.

  Matheson has also recently created and written Majestic, a one-hour paranormal series for TNT, based on the work of Whitley Strieber, and he is currently in development on Dragons, a six-hour mini-series with director Bryan Singer, which he created. He also recently created Splatter, a web-based horror project with Roger Corman, directed by Joe Dante.

  Some of his short stories are collected in Scars and Other Distinguishing Marks, with an introduction by Stephen King, and Dystopia. His debut novel, Created By, was a Bram Stoker Award nominee, and his new novella, The Ritual of Illusion, is available from PS Publishing.

  About ‘Last Words’, Matheson explains: ‘This story blends idealism and a black heart. Its oddly-reasoned crux is that, in the end, we must be heard and remembered.’

  STEPHEN JONES lives in London, England. He is the winner of three World Fantasy Awards, four Horror Writers’Association Bram Stoker Awards and three International Horror Guild Awards, as well as being a twenty-one time recipient of the British Fantasy Award and a Hugo Award nominee. A former television producer/director and genre movie publicist and consultant (the first three Hellraiser movies, Nightbreed, Split Second etc.), he has written and edited more than 100 books, including Coraline: A Visual Companion, The Essential Monster Movie Guide, Horror: 100 Best Books and Horror: Another 100 Best Books (both with Kim Newman) and the Dark Terrors, Dark Voices and The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror series. He was Guest of Honour at the 2002 World Fantasy Convention in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and the 2004 World Horror Convention in Phoenix, Arizona, and is a guest lecturer at UCLA in California and London’s Kingston University and St Mary’s University College. You can visit his web site at www.stephenjoneseditor.com.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Jo Fletcher, Val and Les Edwards, Marlaine Delargy, Chuck Verrill, Mandy Slater and Dorothy Lumley for all their help and support.