The Best New Horror 6

by Stephen Jones

  The letters upset her. The map she could only guess at. But the photographs. Where one might have expected to find treasured snapshots of beloved parents, Daniela found official-issue portraits of the executed dictator and his wife, both in blooming health.

  As she stared at the tyrant’s ever-youthful grin and his wife’s peaceful, oval face, her stomach slowly tied itself into a knot.

  Reluctantly her mind began to work, recalling the graffito, TRAITOR, from the front room, and completing simple equations of logic. She shouldn’t have assumed that the word had been written by agents of the Securitate.

  She walked through familiar streets and felt that at every window, even those boarded up, someone was watching her.

  She had now remembered what the TV reporters had said at the time of the revolution. It had been revealed that many Romanian orphans were placed in special institutions where they were taught to honour and obey their country’s leaders from the earliest possible age: as soon as they could recognise a simple photograph. They grew to love Nicolae and Elena as surrogate parents and their transformation into Ceausescu’s crack personal bodyguard – “the blackshirts” – was merely the next step.

  The last street turned into the boulevard and the new apartment buildings shone.

  They became the most loyal and ruthless of all Securitate factions. So the TV reporters had claimed. And she knew better now than to doubt their revelations. TRAITOR. The family photographs of his adoptive parents. Her name and orphan’s number scribbled on the wall.

  The Palace gleamed beyond the fountains, sunlight glinting off the hundreds of windows. Her eye hurt. A speck intruded on her vision. She blinked, but kept walking, her head becoming gassy.

  On television in Belgrade she had seen still video images of the Ceausescus lying bullet-riddled at the base of the wall.

  She heard a soft throbbing noise.

  The tunnels, the tunnels . . .

  After the trial, the Ceausescus had been led outside by guards, and followed by the ad hoc team of observers and judges who had presided. The man with the television camera was at the back and still in the corridor when the shots rang out. Thus, he could only film the bodies, not the execution.

  Or: a bit of connivance and make-up and the whole thing was a hoax.

  The speck increased in size and the throb became a buzz in the ear. The Palace shimmered. The tunnels were quiet.

  By the time the speck had grown into a helicopter and Daniela had worked out who was coming home, she had already begun to run across the dried-up sea of filth to the gleaming reef. As they climbed out of the machine on to the roof of the People’s Palace, haggard and dishevelled but alive, Daniela reached the ground floor and started beating a tattoo on the first door she came to. Attracted and repelled, terrified and awed in equal measure, she demanded at the top of her voice to be let in.

  The lord was back in his house and life, and death, could begin again.

  GEOFFREY A. LANDIS

  The Singular Habits of Wasps

  GEOFFREY LANDIS lives in Cleveland, Ohio, with a calico cat and twenty-six goldfish. In addition to writing, he works on solar energy research at NASA Lewis Research Center. His current project is to develop instruments to fly on an upcoming unmanned probe to Mars.

  Dr Landis’ first story, “Elemental”, was written while he was a graduate student in physics at Brown University, and earned him a Hugo Award nomination in 1985. Since then his stories have appeared regularly in all the science fiction magazines, and have been translated into twelve languages.

  His story “A Walk in the Sun” won the Hugo Award in 1992, and “Ripples in the Dirac Sea” won the Nebula Award in 1989. A short story collection, Myths, Legends and True History, appeared as part of Pulphouse Publishing’s Author’s Choice Monthly series.

  About “The Singular Habits of Wasps” (which was nominated for both the Nebula and Hugo Awards), he says: “I recall reading ‘The Adventure of the Speckled Band’ as a child, and it made quite an impression on me; in particular the image of an unknown but terrifyingly deadly menace, slithering in the dark down a bell-rope into the bedchamber of our adventurers. I can assure you that, at least for children of some ages, many of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes are not so much mysteries as horror. This story skirts that ill-defined territory which lies at the boundary between mystery, science fiction, horror and historical. A territory, of course, which was not unfamiliar to Sir Arthur himself.

  “In researching the story, I came across several interesting facts, including the fact that in the summer of 1888, the stage adaptation of Stevenson’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was the hit of London’s Lyceum Theatre, and that in the only one of the Jack the Ripper killings in which the presumed murderer was seen with the victim, the suspect was described as a tall man wearing a deerstalker hat . . .”

  OF THE MANY ADVENTURES in which I have participated with my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, none has been more singularly horrifying than the case of the Whitechapel killings, nor ever had I previously had cause to doubt the sanity of my friend. I need but close my eyes to see again the horror of that night; the awful sight of my friend, his arms red to the elbow, his knife still dripping gore, and to recall in every detail the gruesome horrors that followed.

  The tale of this adventure is far too awful to allow any hint of the true course of the affair to be known. Although I dare never let this account be read by others, I have often noticed, in chronicling the adventures of my friend, that in the process of putting pen to paper a great relief occurs. A catharsis, as we call it in the medical profession. And so I hope that by putting upon paper the events of those weeks, I may ease my soul from its dread fascination with the horrid events of that night. I will write this and then secret the account away with orders that it be burned upon my death.

  Genius is, as I have often remarked, closely kin to madness, so closely that at times it is hard to distinguish the one from the other, and the greatest geniuses are also often quite insane. I had for a long time known that my friend was subject to sporadic fits of blackest depression, from which he could become aroused in an instant into bursts of manic energy, in a manner not unlike the cyclic mood-swings of a madman. But the limits to his sanity I never probed.

  The case began in the late springtime of 1888. All who were in London at that time will recall the perplexing afternoon of the double cannonade. Holmes and I were enjoying a cigar after lunch in our sitting room at 221B Baker Street when the hollow report of a double firing of cannon rang out from the cloudless sky, rattling the windows and causing Mrs Hudson’s china to dance upon its shelves. I rushed to the window. Holmes was in the midst of one of those profound fits of melancholia to which he is so prone, and did not rise from his chair, but did bestir himself so much as to ask what I saw. Aside from other, equally perplexed folk opening their windows to look in all directions up and down the street, I saw nothing out of the ordinary, and such I reported to him.

  “Most unusual,” Holmes remarked. He was still slumped almost bonelessly in his chair, but I believed I detected a bit of interest in his eye. “We shall hear more about this, I would venture to guess.”

  And indeed, all of London seemed to have heard the strange reports, without any source to be found, and the subject could not be avoided all that day or the next. Each newspaper ventured an opinion, and even strangers on the street talked of little else. As to conclusion, there was none, nor was the strange sound repeated. In another day the usual gossip, scandals and crimes of the city had crowded the marvel out of the papers, and the case was forgotten.

  But it had, at least, the effect of breaking my friend out of his melancholia, even so far as to cause him to pay a rare visit to his brother at the Diogenes Club. Mycroft was high in the Queen’s service, and there were few secrets of the Empire to which Mycroft was not privy. Holmes did not confide in me as to what result came of his inquiries of Mycroft, but he spent the remainder of the evening pacing and smoking, contemplating some mystery
.

  In the morning we had callers, and the mystery of the cannonade was temporarily set aside. They were two men in simple but neat clothes, both very diffident and hesitant of speech.

  “I see that you have come from the south of Surrey,” Holmes said calmly. “A farm near Godalming, perhaps?”

  “Indeed we have, sir, from Covingham, which is a bit south of Godalming,” said the elder of the visitors, “though how you could know, I’ll never guess in all my born days, seeing as how I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you before in my life, nor Baxter here neither.”

  I knew that Holmes, with his encyclopaedic knowledge, would have placed them precisely from their accents and clothing, although this elementary feat of deduction seemed to quite astound our visitors.

  “And this is the first visit to London for either of you,” said Holmes. “Why have you come this distance from your farm to see me?”

  The two men looked at each other in astonishment. “Why, right you are again, sir! Never been to London town, nor Baxter.”

  “Come, come; to the point. You have traveled this distance to see me upon some matter of urgency.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s the matter of young Gregory. A farm hand he was, sir, a strapping lad, over six feet and still lacking ‘is full height. A-haying he was. A tragic accident t’was, sir, tragic.”

  Holmes of course noticed the use of the past tense, and his eyes brightened. “An accident, you say? Not murder?”

  “Yes.”

  Holmes was puzzled. “Then, pray, why have you come to me?”

  “’Is body, sir. We’ve come about ’is body.”

  “What about it?”

  “Why, it’s gone, sir. Right vanished away.”

  “Ah.” Holmes leaned forward in his chair, his eyes gleaming with sudden interest. “Pray, tell me all about it, and spare none of the details.”

  The story they told was long and involved many diversions into details of life as a hired hand at Sherringford Farm, the narration so roundabout that even Holmes’s patience was tried, but the essence of the story was simple. Baxter and young Gregory had been working in the fields when Gregory had been impaled by the blade of the mechanical haying engine. “And cursed be the day that the master ever decided to buy such an infernal device,” added the older man, who was the uncle and only relation of the poor Gregory. Disentangled from the machine, the young farmhand had been still alive, but very clearly dying. His abdomen had been ripped open and his viscera exposed. Baxter had laid the dying man in the shade of a hayrick, and gone to fetch help. Help had taken two hours to arrive, and when they had come, they had found the puddle of congealing blood, but no sign of Gregory. They had searched all about, but the corpse was nowhere to be found, nor was there any sign of how he had been carried away. There was no chance, Baxter insisted, that Gregory could have walked even a small distance on his own. “Not unless he dragged ’is guts after him. I’ve seen dying men, guv, and men what ’ave been mere wounded, and young Gregory was for it.”

  “This case may have some elements of interest in it,” said Holmes. “Pray, leave me to cogitate upon the matter tonight. Watson, hand me the train schedule, would you? Thank you. Ah, it is as I thought. There is a 9 AM train from Waterloo.” He turned to the two men. “If you would be so good as to meet me on the morrow at the platform?”

  “Aye, sir, that we could.”

  “Then it is settled. Watson, I do believe you have a prior engagement?”

  That I did, as I was making plans for my upcoming marriage, and had already made firm commitment in the morning to inspect a practice in the Paddington district with a view toward purchasing it. Much as I have enjoyed accompanying my friend upon his adventures, this was one which I should have to forego.

  Holmes returned late from Surrey, and I did not see him until breakfast the next morning. As often he was when on a case, he was rather uncommunicative, and my attempts to probe the matter were met with monosyllables, except at the very last. “Most unusual,” he said, as if to himself. “Most singular indeed.”

  “What?” I asked, eager to listen now that it appeared that Holmes was ready to break his silence.

  “The tracks, Watson,” he said. “The tracks. Not man, nor beast, but definitely tracks.” He looked at his pocket-watch. “Well, I must be off. Time enough for cogitation when I have more facts.”

  “But where are you going?”

  Holmes laughed. “My dear Watson, I have in my time amassed a bit of knowledge of various matters which would be considered most recherché to laymen. But I fear that, upon occasion, even I must consult with an expert.”

  “Then whom?”

  “Why, I go to see Professor Huxley,” he answered, and was out the door before I could ask what query he might have for the eminent biologist.

  He was absent from Baker Street all afternoon. When he returned after suppertime I was anxious to ask how his interview with the esteemed professor had gone.

  “Ah, Watson, even I make my occasional mistake. I should have telegraphed first. As it was, Professor Huxley had just left London, and is not to return for a week.” He took out his pipe, inspected it for a moment, then set it aside and rang for Mrs Hudson to bring in some supper. “But in this case, my journey was not in vain. I had a most delightful discussion with the professor’s protégé, a Mr Wells by name. A Cockney lad, son of a shop-keeper and no more than twenty-two, unless I miss my guess, but a most remarkable man nonetheless. Interested in a wide variety of fields, and I venture to say that in whatever field he chooses, he will outshine even his esteemed teacher. Quite an interesting conversation we had, and a most useful one.”

  “But what was it that you discussed?” I asked.

  Holmes set aside the cold beef that Mrs Hudson had brought, leaned back in his chair, and shut his eyes. For a while I thought that he had gone to sleep without hearing my question. At last he spoke. “Why, we discussed the planet Mars,” he said, without opening his eyes. “And the singular habits of wasps.”

  It seemed that his researches, whatever they were, led to no distinct conclusion, for when I asked him about the case the next day, he gave no response. That day he stayed in his chambers, and through the closed door I heard only the intermittent voice of his violin speaking in its melancholy, unfathomable tongue.

  I have perhaps mentioned before that my friend would habitually have more than one case on which he worked at any one time. It appeared that over the next few evenings he was about on another one, for I found him dressing to go out at a late hour.

  “Another case, Holmes?” I asked.

  “As you can see, Watson,” he replied. He indicated his less-than-respectable outfit and the threadbare workman’s jacket he was pulling on over it. “Duty calls at all hours. I shan’t be more than a few hours, I expect.”

  “I am ready to assist.”

  “Not in this one, my dear friend. You may stay home tonight.”

  “Is there danger?”

  “Danger?” He seemed surprised, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Danger? Oh, perhaps a slight bit.”

  “You know that I would not hesitate . . .”

  “My dear doctor,” he said, and smiled. “Let me assure you that I am not worried on that score. No, it is that I go to the East End . . .”

  The East End of London was no place for gentlemen, with slaughterhouses and tenements of the lowest order; a place for drunkards, sailors, Chinese and Indian laborers, and ruffians of all sorts. Nevertheless I was quite willing to brave much worse, if necessary, for the sake of Holmes. “Is that all?” I said. “Holmes, I do believe you underestimate me!”

  “Ah, Watson . . .” He seemed to reflect for a moment. “No, it would not do. You are soon to be married, and have your wife-to-be to think of.” He raised a hand to forestall my imminent objection. “No, not the danger, my friend. Don’t worry for me on that score. I have my resources. It is . . . how to put it delicately? I expect that I shall meet people in places wher
e a gentleman soon to be married would best not be seen.”

  “Holmes!”

  “Business, my dear Watson. Business.” And with that, he left.

  His business there did not seem to be concluded that evening or the next. By the end of August he was visiting the East End once or twice a week. I had already become used to his odd hours and strange habits, and soon thought nothing of it. But he was so habitual about it, and so secretive, that it soon caused me to wonder whether perhaps he might be calling upon a woman. I could think of nothing that seemed less like Holmes, for in all my time with him he had never expressed a trace of romantic interest in the fairer sex. And yet, from my own medical experience, I knew that even the most steadfast of men must experience those urges common to our gender, however much he might profess to disdain romance.

  Romance? Though I myself never frequented such places, as an Army man I knew quite as well as Holmes what sort of women dwelt in Whitechapel, and what profession they practised. Indeed, he had admitted as much when he had warned me away “because I was to be married.” But then, a woman of such type could well appeal to Holmes. There would be nothing of romance involved. It would be merely a business proposition for her, and a release of pressure for him. A dozen times I resolved to warn him of the dangers – the danger of disease, if nothing else – in patronizing women of that sort, and so many times my nerve failed and I said nothing.

  And, if it were not what I feared, what case could it be that would take him into Whitechapel with such frequency?

  One evening, shortly after Holmes had left, a message boy delivered a small package addressed to him. The address proclaimed it to be from a John B. Coores and Sons, but gave no clue to its contents. This name seemed to me familiar, but, struggle as I might, I could not recall where I might have seen it before. I left it in the sitting room for Holmes, and the next morning saw that he had taken it. He made no mention of the package or of what it contained, however, and my curiosity over it remained unslaked.