The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories

by James D. Jenkins

  ‘If you please – it is mine,’ she said timidly. The wonder crept into her eyes when she beheld the expression in mine.

  For I was almost stupefied. Here was the girl in the substance, whom I had seen in the shadow. On this occasion I could not pick out portions of the wall through her head.

  She was quite a little girl, plainly dressed in black, and pretty in a quiet way, though very pale. I kept staring at her, until she began to grow afraid. She shrank back, and said in the same low voice, ‘I can’t prove that it is mine. Still, I am telling you the truth.’

  ‘I know you are,’ I burst forth. ‘I saw you drop it.’

  Her mouth took a curious shape; she was divided between fear of me and anxiety to regain her brooch.

  ‘Tell me your name,’ I said, almost sharply, for my nerves were overstrung.

  She hesitated a moment, and then replied simply, ‘Jessie Barker.’

  I spoke almost without knowing it. ‘Does your father live here?’

  That stirred her. Her cheeks grew still whiter. ‘Why do you ask?’ she whispered, bending forward. ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘Listen,’ I said, taking her by the arm. ‘Away north there’s a shanty standing on a patch of prairie in the heart of the bush. An old man lives there, an old madman. His eyes—’

  She screamed, and covered her face with her hands. ‘Don’t – it’s too horrible.’ Presently the strange confession came forth slowly. ‘I have seen him – often – but I not know who he is; I do not know where that shanty is, though I have been in it every night—’

  ‘I have seen you there.’

  ‘No – no,’ she sobbed, for she was crying now. ‘That is impossible.’

  ‘But you must know his name – it is Pete Barker.’

  She screamed again, and tottered as though she would fall. I came forward to support her, but she pushed me away with her weak little hands. ‘Please let me go. I do not want my brooch now – I want to go home.’

  At length she recovered a little, and stood wiping her eyes with a tiny handkerchief, her shoulders heaving with suppressed sobs. ‘It was my father’s name,’ she faltered.

  ‘Then he is your father. But how did you recognize the description?’

  She gave a shudder. ‘By my dreams.’

  ‘Dreams!’ I repeated, though I began to understand.

  ‘I always dreaded sleep. I was sure to find myself in that horrible place, staring at that – that madman. Night was a time of horror for me. I got weak and ill – I think I should have died, but the dreams suddenly ceased.’

  ‘You never go there now?’ It was a strange way of putting the question, but my brain was whirling.

  ‘No. The dreams stopped one night last summer. They have never come back.’

  ‘What night was that?’

  ‘The seventeenth of July.’

  I remembered the date well. Her dreams had ceased the night after we had left the shanty. Mysteries were falling like snowflakes in October.

  The girl was too ill to talk any more, so I saw her home, and returned her the brooch. Soon afterwards I saw her again, and then she told me the little she knew of her family history.

  ‘My father married at an advanced age. He was very fond of his wife, who was an English girl, but I have heard that the affection was not altogether mutual. I was their first child, and a few months after I was born my mother disappeared. People thought she must have made away with herself; anyhow, she was never heard of again. Everybody noticed that my father was very strange after his wife’s disappearance, so they weren’t much surprised when he suddenly left the place. Since then, nobody has seen him, except you – and I.’

  The following summer, the Indian Department again ordered me to the Sand River Station. I had no idea who was to accompany me as guide and interpreter, until I reached the starting-point. There I found Kline awaiting me.

  ‘They’ve bothered you with me again, Talbot,’ he said, by way of greeting. ‘Well, I guess I know the trail this journey. We won’t go fooling off down side tracks and paying visits to private lunatic asylums, eh?’

  For the first days of our outward journey everything went smoothly. Certainly the trail was very difficult. I noted it more especially on this occasion, and wondered how Kline managed to keep right, for side trails bristled from the main like a herring bone. But the prairie was his home, and he understood it well.

  It was late in the afternoon. We were trotting along easily, with a cool wind fanning our faces. Gaudy tiger lilies and marigolds brushed our horses’ legs. Suddenly we passed a tall poplar that stood quite by itself, near the trail, the lower part of its trunk black as ink, the upper white as flour. It seemed to be familiar.

  A curious sensation that! Often have I travelled across the prairie, and been attracted, almost hailed, by some slight object, which has fixed itself into the memory, yet been forgotten, until the sight of it has again restored remembrance. You recollect, perhaps, the actual phrase you used when passing on the previous occasion.

  But Kline had also noticed this tree, and continually cast mysterious glances towards it, standing gaunt and motionless in the lessening sunlight. He was leading, but I soon perceived that he was uneasy, for he was gazing from right to left, sometimes half checking Billy, at others turning and looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

  Still we pushed on, without speaking, but I kept my eyes upon the guide. Moisture glistened beneath the wide rim of his hat, and I felt that this was not caused by heat. He held his gaze fixed ahead, riding like a man who has lost control over his actions.

  The sun was dissolving into the colours of evening, and the shadows were growing blacker, when the explanation came. Kline reined up with a frightened oath; he turned his face to me and pointed beyond. Following the direction of his hand, I saw, quivering in the rising breeze, a thick mass of stunted vegetation springing from a patch of once cultivated land!

  ‘How the h—l have I gone to work and made the mistake again?’ he almost shouted, and I was surprised to find him so thoroughly alarmed. ‘I knew I was wrong for the last hour.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘let’s go on. We’ll spend the night with old Barker again.’

  He shrank back in horror. ‘Not me! I’d sooner camp right here, without supper or drink.’

  I only replied shortly, ‘I’m going, anyhow. I want to see him again.’

  Kline saw the imputation upon his courage. Presently he said sulkily, ‘You’re boss, Talbot. If you say, “come” I’ve got to.’

  On this occasion I was leader. Down the slope we struggled, along the narrow path, and out once more into the open. There stood the shanty ahead, but as we rode across the open space, I noticed that the weeds had grown up thickly all round, even in front of the door, which stood slightly open.

  Though I was quick in dismounting, Kline was ahead of me. He had entered before I touched ground. We met at the door, and he exclaimed, ‘The old chap’s hopped the twig.’

  ‘Dead?’ I cried, though I was scarcely astonished.

  ‘As this log post. I’ll fetch him out, though he’s not much in the beauty line.’

  He disappeared again, and I heard him muttering and groaning. Presently a harsh sound of bones creaking and dry skin stretching and cracking reached my ears and made me shudder. Then he reappeared, dragging a dreadful skeleton, over which the brown skin, partially covered with wretched shreds of clothing, still hung tightly. The twisted beard and greasy locks were still there, the dry, sunken eyeballs; yellow teeth protruded from the grinning jaws. Finger bones and misshapen feet scraped gruesome furrows in the dusty soil, as Kline, whose sudden nerve I wondered at, dragged the heap of bones from the shanty and rested them on the grass.

  ‘Why! there’s blood on his beard!’ I exclaimed, as I bent over the remains.

  ‘Pshaw!’ muttered Kline, ‘that’s no blood.’

  ‘It is,’ I said testily. ‘He must have fallen and struck his head against the wall.’

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nbsp; ‘That’s it, Talbot,’ agreed my companion, hastily. ‘He went off in a fit. All these crazy chaps do that.’

  We interred Barker’s bones with scant ceremony, simply removing the turf, scooping out a couple of feet of loam, then laying in the body, and finally replacing the earth. This done, we fumigated the hut by means of a smudge, and made it as habit­able as before.

  As we sat smoking after supper, I reflected upon the curious repetition of events. Before turning in, I ransacked the box, but found nothing of significance, though later I observed something which sent a thrill through my body.

  After I had deprived old Barker of the axe with which he was about to cut short Kline’s career, I had driven it into one of the logs near the window, and had left it so fixed. Now I noticed that the weapon was still in the very position in which I had placed it a twelvemonth back. So the old man must have died almost immediately after our departure, for he would have found some use for the axe every day of his life. This convinced me that Jessie Barker’s­­­­ release was owing to her father’s death, which, according to her statement, must have taken place on the very day of our departure. The excitement had probably brought on a fit, which had finished him off.

  Before we settled down for the night, Kline insisted on hanging his coat before the window. ‘It’s going to be a bright night,’ he explained. ‘I don’t want to wake up and see his bony face sticking against the panes outside.’

  I think I went off to sleep almost directly. The room being partially darkened was scarcely an improvement, for shimmering rays crept in on all sides, lighting up parts of the room, and leaving the remainder in a deep darkness. However, I was tired, and not in a mood to be easily disturbed.

  It is not pleasant to be suddenly aroused, even in your own unromantic bedroom. But to be awakened at dead of night in a lonely hut, miles from civilisation – to be called into action, moreover, by a voice that is hoarse with horror, and stirred by a hand that is well-nigh powerless with fright – is an experience that few would wish to undergo.

  I started up, and, by the wan light of a wandering moonray, saw Kline hanging over me. His face was distorted, and his eyes half shut; the lower jaw fell, while he panted like a dog; shining drops coursed down his nose.

  I tried to speak, but my tongue was bound; I tried to rise, but my limbs were frozen. I tried to make signs, but my muscles refused to act. Still he hung over me, quivering and sweating.

  At length I managed to ejaculate, in a voice which was not mine, ‘Speak, Louis!’

  The answer came, but not from him. There was a gentle knocking at the door. Gentle, but soon it grew louder, until hollow echoes ran around the hut. The silence returned, a silence more awful than the disturbance. Kline had fallen forward, right over my body.

  ‘It’s him,’ he moaned, twisting his foolish fingers round my arm.

  The shanty stood out in the open. No tree grew by; no branch could fitfully tap against the door.

  I would have torn the coat from the window, but Kline held my arm. ‘Don’t, for the Lord’s sake! Do you want to see him grinning at us? He’s outside there – tearing round the shanty – crazy as ever.’

  I trembled horribly; then the knocking came again. Kline clutched me frantically, burying his head close to my side, moaning and sobbing like a child.

  ‘They say dead men don’t talk. I tell you, they howl, and they yell. A living man can’t get in a word with them!’

  ‘What are you driving at?’ I muttered, but he only groaned and slobbered, so I made as though I would get up.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ he panted. ‘If you open the door, he’ll murder me. That’s what he’s waiting outside for. I killed him, Talbot – fixed him last year.’

  I sank back in horror, while he rambled on. ‘I was terrible mad with him for trying to fix me, so I slipped back and shot him. There it is! Oh, Lord!’

  I could feel his convulsive tremblings as the knocking arose again. But when it died away, I pulled together my few shreds of courage and rose, shaking off Kline, who clung to me pitifully.

  ‘Don’t leave me, Talbot. We’re done for, if you open the door.’

  I tore down the coat, and the moonlight poured into the room, lighting up every corner. Kline covered up his face with the fallen garment, while I staggered to the door, and took a deep breath, like a man about to plunge into cold water. I put my hand towards the catch – then the bony fingers rattled upon the partition, and I fell back into the room.

  It ceased. Five times I caught hold of the catch, but my arm dropped powerless. At last I flung open the door, though I weakly closed my eyes at the last moment. Then I laughed at my folly, for there was nothing – nothing, except the long, waving grasses, the dark line of bush, with the moonlight playing over all. So I stepped outside, keeping, I must confess, a watchful eye upon a certain black mound that rose hard by.

  I leaned against the log wall, and gazed at the motionless line of trees. Suddenly I fancied a breath of cold air passed across my cheek. The night was exceedingly warm – there was scarcely a ripple of wind. The next instant there were two small blue lights, close together, moving over the grass. They looked to be about five and a half feet above the ground. I could think of nothing but Pete Barker’s eyes.

  As I stood there, frozen outwardly, on fire inwardly, my left hand was seized. Invisible fingers closed around mine; rough bone pressed against my hand; long talons pricked my flesh. It pulled, and though my knees tottered, I had to obey, to follow the dreadful thing, with a moaning in my ears, and the blue lights hovering at my side, through the trembling grass that swept against my legs, across the open space, into the bush. Through thick brake and over great stones, crashing through tangled bushes that cut and lashed my face, on and on, dragged by that horrible, irresistible hand. . . .

  I sank upon a rock, and struggled to regain breath and senses. I could see that a hand had formerly been at work in that spot, clearing away the undergrowth, which was now commencing to spring up again. At length I rose, and stepped from the circle of pines. In an instant the dreadful grasp fell upon me, and I was forced back, this time to the centre of the clearing. The moonlight poured down through the mournful trees, so I bent to examine the ground at my feet. Probably the soil had been disturbed in the past, though there were no signs to assure me. So I drew out a knife and bent to my task, loosening the earth, and chopping through roots. I had scarcely dug to the depth of a foot, when my nails – I was shoveling aside the loam with my hands – scraped against a smooth surface. After a little more burrowing I unearthed a small box, the lid of which was fastened by nails. With this I passed from the group of pines without hindrance, and returned to the shanty, where I found Kline lying in a dead faint.

  Later, in the grey dawn, I told my story. Then we opened the box, and discovered three things, each telling a separate tale of that dreadful life. A photograph – at first glance I thought it was intended for Jessie, subsequently I guessed that it was her mother’s likeness. Then a baby’s coral, with two little silver bells attached. Lastly, a roll of dirty paper, covered with almost illegible writing. This was a confession, written and signed some years before by old Barker, setting forth the fact that he had murdered his wife in a mad fit of jealousy.

  Kline quickly recovered from his conscience-stricken fear, and to this day I do not know whether to blame him for his act. Certainly the madman’s death preserved the daughter’s reason, and her life was of more value than his, I take it. He must have possessed some hypnotic influence over her, though I don’t know whether he was aware that he exerted this power nightly. I have never again been near the shanty, though I daresay it still stands upon the bush-encircled patch of prairie, sixty-five miles north-west of the Sand River.

  I never saw Jessie again, as she had left Winnipeg when I returned, so I had no opportunity of letting her know the truth regarding her mother’s end. I confess I was disappointed, for she was a pretty girl, and once or twice I had thought – but that has nothing wh
atever to do with this story.

  Steve Rasnic Tem

  THE PARTS MAN

  One of the finest and most original speculative fiction writers of our time, Steve Rasnic Tem has published over 430 stories, seven novels, and ten collections in a career spanning four decades and has won nearly every major award in the field, including the World Fantasy Award, British Fantasy Award, and Bram Stoker Award. His work blends elements of horror, dark fantasy, science fiction and surreal nightmare into a genre uniquely his own. ‘The Parts Man’ was written especially for this volume and ranks alongside the author’s best work. A retrospective collection of thirty-­five of Tem’s finest tales, Figures Unseen: Selected Stories, appeared from Valancourt in 2018.

  The car was right out of the mid-thirties: jet black with a chrome grill, skirted fenders, multibar bumpers, and the dashboard rich in shiny silver knobs and trim. Cranks on either side of the dash allowed him to tilt the two halves of the split windshield. Christian loved that classic look, but this vehicle, with its endless lines and confusing interior shadows, not so much.

  The car stretched as it roared through intersections and bent around corners. The side windows were so short it appeared to be squinting. The inside, so full of dark, had enough room to fit pretty much every person Christian had ever wronged.

  ‘Drive faster. You have limited time, and so many passengers to pick up,’ said the parts man from one of the back seats. The parts man moved around in the car by means of unfathomable physics. He seemed everywhere at once. Sometimes he appeared large enough to fill the interior, other times so thin and two-dimensional he disappeared when turning his head.

  Christian kept a nervous eye on the rear view mirror. ‘I’m still getting used to the shifter.’

  ‘Push the gas pedal down, Christian.’ The voice was close behind him, breath stinking of spoiled meat and cigar. Christian gazed into the rear-view and the parts man stared back, only his sleepy brown eyes and a twisted stretch of pale nose showing. Thankfully not the mouth of no lips, the saw-like teeth, the long white tongue. ‘Or are you having second thoughts?’