The Mammoth Book of Terror

by Stephen Jones

  “You who are present tonight are especially fortunate. Not at every performance is it possible to show a shape-changer. Lycanthropy is not a condition that can be perfectly timed – and now, here is the werewolf.”

  He placed a small whistle to his lips and blew into it. No sound came, but a large grey wolf trotted into the sawdust ring, moving as silently as the whistle that called it. Slanting eyes glinted yellowish-green. The animal threw back its head and gave a prolonged and chilling howl.

  Hairs prickled on the back of Bragg’s neck and he almost came out of his seat. He blinked his eyes as the wolf-shape wavered. The creature appeared to elongate as it rose high on hind limbs. The fur changed. Bragg moistened suddenly-dry lips as the wolf became more manlike . . . and more . . . till it was a naked man who stood before them.

  An attendant draped a blanket about his shoulders and together they walked off. Blood pounded through Bragg’s head; it had to be a fake, obviously, but it was a convincing fake.

  “The ancient Egyptians believed in physical immortality,” Dr Nis whispered. “They had a ceremony known as the Opening of the Mouth. This ceremony restored to the body, after death, its ability to see, hear, eat and speak. Here now, a mummy from the land of the Pharaohs.”

  A withered mummy, wrapped in discoloured linen bandages, its naked face dark-skinned, was carried into the ring. Four jars were placed about it.

  “These are Canopicjars, containing the heart and lungs and the viscera of the deceased.”

  A voice spoke, a voice that seemed to come from the mummy. It spoke in a language unfamiliar to Bragg.

  Dr Nis said smoothly: “I will translate freely. The mummy speaks: True believers only are safe here – those who doubt are advised to open their hearts.”

  Bragg wanted to laugh, but sweat dried cold on his flesh and laughter wouldn’t come.

  The mummy was carried off.

  “We have next,” Dr Nis said with pride, “an experiment of my own. Can a corpse be re-animated? Can the component parts of a man be brought together and endued with life? I shall allow you to judge how successful I have been.”

  A travesty of a man shuffled down the aisle and into the ring. It was hideous. The limbs were not identical; they had not come from the same body. The head, waxen and discoloured, lolled at an angle, as if insecurely hinged at the neck. It lumbered unsteadily around the sawdust ring, and it smelt. The man-thing did not speak; it stumbled over uneven feet, rocking from side to side as it tried to recover balance, and lost its head.

  A small gasp was jerked from Bragg’s lips as the detached head hit the sawdust and rolled to a stop. The headless cadaver blundered on aimlessly, like a decapitated chicken, until attendants hurried to guide it from the ring.

  Bragg felt sick, and his fingers drummed nervously on his knees. Impossible to believe the thing was just a freak; yet he had to believe, or admit the impossible.

  Dr Nis looked unhappy. “I must apologize – obviously my experiment is not yet perfected for public viewing. And so we come to our final offering this evening. You all know, if only in a vague way, that before men inhabited this world, the reptiles ruled for millions of years. They were the true Lords of the Earth. Science maintains that they died out before men appeared, but science has been wrong before. There was interbreeding . . .”

  The creature that slithered into the ring was about five feet long. It had the general appearance of a man on all fours, but its skin was scaly and iridescent. The hands were clawed, the head narrowed and thrust forward, and a forked tongue hung from the mouth.

  An attendant brought a plastic bag and released from it a cloud of flies. The creature reared up, long tongue flickering like forked lightning, catching the flies and swallowing them.

  A sick show, Bragg decided; an outrage to perform this sort of thing before children. The catch-phrases of popular journalism ran through his head – “This Show Must Be Banned!”

  Pipe music played again, a falling scale. Dr Nis bowed and left the ring. Families rose and filed quietly out, their offspring subdued.

  Bragg vaulted into the ring, crossed the sawdust and left by the aisle exit. As he hurried towards the caravans, he saw Dr Nis entering one of them.

  The door was just closing when Bragg arrived and leaned on it. Dr Nis turned to peer at him.

  “Ah, Mr Bragg, I was half-expecting you. You are, after all, well known in your trade.”

  Bragg pushed his way into the caravan and felt like a giant in a doll’s house; everything seemed smaller, neat and tidy in its appointed place.

  “Then you’ll know the paper I work for and the sort of thing I write.” He couldn’t be bothered to turn on the charm. “Tell me – tell the Herald’s millions of readers – how do you justify your show? Horror for adults – okay, we’ll go along with that. But the kids?’

  Dr Nis made a small deprecating motion with his hands. “Horror, Mr Bragg? I deplore the term. My life is spent trying to keep alive a faith, a faith in the mystery of Nature. Strange things happen. If a man who believes sees a ghost, is he frightened? Yet a man who disbelieves and comes face to face with one may well die of shock. So perhaps my show serves a useful purpose . . . as for children, what better time to develop a sense of wonder?”

  “That’s your story – now let’s have the low-down on howyour gimmicks work.”

  “Gimmicks?” Dr Nis regarded him calmly. “I assure you I do not deal in trickery. Consider this: who knows you are here? And aren’t you just a little bit frightened?”

  Bragg flinched. “Who, me? Of a bunch of freaks?” But his voice was edged with doubt.

  Dr Nis said, “I do not want the kind of publicity you have in mind, Mr Bragg. I don’t think it would serve my purpose.” He smiled suddenly, and his smile was not for his visitor.

  Arnold Bragg turned. Freaks crowded the door of the caravan: the vampire, the werewolf and the lizard-man. The resurrected man was conspicuously absent.

  “I think it would be best if Mr Bragg disappeared,” Dr Nis said quietly. “But don’t damage his head, please.” He looked again at Bragg, his eyes bright and hard.

  “You see, Mr Bragg, I believe I have a use for it.”

  OVER SEVEN MILLION COPIES of F. Paul Wilson’s books are in print around the world and he is the author of such best-selling novels as The Keep (filmed in 1983) and The Tomb. In 1998 he resurrected his popular anti-hero Repairman Jack and recently published the latest volumes in the series, Gateways and Crisscross. Beacon Films is presently developing Jack into a franchise character.

  In 2003, Midnight Mass was a micro-budget independent movie adaptation of his vampire story of the same title (with a cameo by the author), released straight to video by Lions Gate Films. More recently he combined the tale with its two prequels, “The Lord’s Work” and “Good Friday”, and expanded them into a full-length novel.

  “In many cases I have no idea where a story comes from,” reveals Wilson. “Not so with ‘Foet’. It arrived intact while I lay awake after an argument with a woman friend over her fur coat. (Such a deal, she’d bought two.) She wasn’t the least bit fazed that anal electrocution is the method of choice for killing minks. Her attitude was: animals are here for our use, to do with as we please. Another woman present agreed.

  “My wife Mary squeezed my thigh under the table – her oftused technique for warning me to think before igniting my flame-thrower. (Some nights I’m limping by the time we get home.) I realized then that you cannot have a serious conversation with some women – not all women, but too many, as evidenced by the ongoing popularity of fur – about the humane treatment of animals if vanity or fashion are part of the equation. (I hear the cries of ’sexist!’ but I speak from experience.) Fashion and vanity create an ethical blind spot in these women.

  “I remember my closing remark before the conversation fled to more neutral ground: ‘You’d probably wear human skin if it was in vogue!’

  “And thus, the story.”

  DENISE DIDN’T MIND
THE January breeze blowing against her back down Fifth Avenue as she crossed Fifty-seventh Street. Her favorite place in the world was Manhattan, her favorite pastime was shopping, and when she was shopping in midtown – heaven.

  At the curb she stopped and turned to stare at the pert blonde who’d just passed. She couldn’t believe it.

  “Helene? Helene Ryder, is that you?”

  The blonde turned. Her eyes lit with recognition.

  “Ohmigod, Denise! Imagine meeting you here! How long has it been?”

  They hugged and air kissed.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Six months?”

  “At least! What are you doing in the city?”

  “Just shopping. Accessory hunting.”

  “Me, too. Where were you headed?”

  “Actually, I was looking for a place to get off my feet and have a bite to eat. I skipped lunch and I’m famished.”

  “That sounds good.” Helene glanced at her watch. A diamond Piaget, Denise noticed. “It’s tea time at the Waldorf. Why don’t we go there?”

  “Wonderful!”

  During the bouncy cab ride down Park Avenue, Denise gave Helene a thorough twice-over and was impressed. Her blonde hair was short and fashionably tousled; her merino wool topcoat, camel’s-hair sweater, and short wool and cashmere skirt reeked of Barney’s and Bergdorf s.

  Amazing what could happen when your husband got a big promotion. You could move from Fairfield to Greenwich, and you could buy any little thing your heart desired.

  Not that Helene hadn’t always had style. It was just that now she could afford to dress in the manner to which she and Denise had always hoped to become accustomed.

  Denise was still waiting to become accustomed. Her Brian didn’t have quite the drive of Helene’s Harry. He still liked to get involved in local causes and in church functions. And that was good in a way. It allowed him more time at home with her and the twins. The downside, though, was that she didn’t have the budget to buy what she needed when she needed it. As a result, Denise had honed her shopping skills to the black-belt level. By keeping her eyes and ears ever open, buying judiciously, and timing her purchases to the minute – like now, for instance, in the post-holiday retail slump – she managed to keep herself looking nearly as in style as someone with a pocketbook as deep as Helene’s.

  And on the subject of pocketbooks, Denise could not take her eyes off Helene’s. Fashioned of soft, silky, golden brown leather that seemed to glow in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the grimy windows of the cab, it perfectly offset the colors of her outfit. She wondered if Helene had chosen the bag for the outfit, or the outfit for the bag. She suspected the latter. The bag was exquisite, the stitchwork especially fascinating in its seemingly random joining of odd-sized and odd-shaped pieces. But it was the material itself that drew and captured her attention. She had an urge to reach out and touch it. But she held back.

  Later. She’d ask Helene about it during tea.

  Sitting here with Helene on a settee along the wall in Peacock Alley at the Waldorf, sipping tea and nibbling on petits fours from the tray on the table before them, Denise felt as if she were part of the international set. The room whispered exotic accents and strange vowels. Almost every nationality was represented – the Far East most strongly – and everyone was dressed to the nines. The men’s suits were either Armani or Vacca, and a number of the women outshone even Helene. Denise felt almost dowdy.

  And still . . . that handbag of Helene’s, sitting between them on the sofa. She couldn’t escape the urge to caress it, could not keep her eyes off it.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Helene said.

  “Hmmm?” Denise felt a flash of embarrassment at being caught staring, and wondered if the envy showed in her eyes. “The bag? Yes, it is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

  “I’d be surprised if you had.” Helen pushed it closer. “Take a look.”

  Soft. That was the first thing Denise noticed as she lifted it. The leather was so soft, a mix of silk and down as her fingers brushed over the stitched surface. She cradled it on her lap. It stole her breath.

  “Urn . . . very unusual, isn’t it?” she managed to say after a moment.

  “No. Not so unusual. I’ve spotted a few others around the room since we arrived.”

  “Really?” Denise had been so entranced by Helene’s bag that the others had gone unnoticed. That wasn’t like her. “Where?”

  Helene tilted her head to their left. “Right over there. Two tables down, in the navy blue sweater chemise and matching leggings.”

  Denise spotted her. AJapanese woman, holding the bag on the coffee table before her. Hers was black, but the stitching was unmistakable. As Denise scanned the room she noticed another, this one a deep coffee brown. And she noticed something else – they belonged to the most exquisitely dressed women in the room, the ones draped in Helmut Lang and Versace. Among all the beautifully dressed people here in Peacock Alley, the women who stood out, who showed exceptional flair and style in their ensembles, were the ones carrying these bags.

  Denise knew in that instant that she had to have one. It didn’t matter how much they cost, this was the accessory she’d been looking for, the touch that would set her apart, lift her to a higher fashion plane.

  The Japanese woman rose from her table and walked past. She glanced at Denise on her way by. Her gaze dropped to the bag on Denise’s lap and she smiled and nodded. Denise managed to smile back.

  What was that? It almost seem as if the women with these bags had formed some sort of club. If so, no matter what the dues, Denise wanted to be a member.

  Helene was smiling knowingly when Denise looked back at her.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Helene sing-songed.

  “Do you?”

  “Uh-huh. ‘Where do I get one?’ Right?”

  Right. But Denise wasn’t going to admit it. She hated being obvious.

  “Actually I was wondering what kind of leather it is.”

  A cloud crossed Helene’s face.

  “You don’t know?” She paused, then: “It’s foet.”

  “Feet? Whose feet?” And then Denise realized what Helene had said. “Oh . . . my . . . God!”

  “Now, Denise—”

  Foet! She’d heard of it but had never thought she’d see it or actually touch it, never dreamed Helene would buy any. Her gorge rose.

  “I don’t believe it!”

  Denise pushed the bag back onto the sofa between them and glared at Helene.

  “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if I committed a crime or anything.”

  “How could you, Helene?”

  “Look at it.” Helene lifted the bag. “How could I not?”

  Denise’s eyes were captured again by the golden glow of the leather. She felt her indignation begin to melt.

  “Butit’s human skin!” she said, as much to remind herself of that hideous fact as to drag it out into the open.

  “Not human . . . at least according to the Supreme Court.”

  “I don’t care what those old farts say, it’s still human skin!”

  Helene shook her head, “Fetal skin, Denise. From abortions. And it’s legal. If fetuses were legally human, you couldn’t abort them. So the Supreme Court finally had to rule that their skin could be used.”

  “I know all about that, Helene.”

  Who didn’t know about Ranieri v. Verlaine? The case had sent shock waves around the country. Around the world! Denise’s church had formed a group to go down to Washington to protest it. As a matter of fact—

  “Helene, you were out on Pennsylvania Avenue with me demonstrating against the ruling! How could you—?”

  Helene shrugged. “Things change. I’m still anti-abortion, but after we moved away from Fairfield and I lost contact with our old church group, I stopped thinking about it. Our new friends aren’t into that sort of stuff and so I, well, just kind of drifted into other things.”

  “Th
at’s fine, Helene, but how does that bring you to buying something like . . .” She pointed to the bag and, God help her, she still wanted to run her hands over it. “This!”

  “I saw one. We went to a reception – some fund-raiser for the homeless, I think – and I met a woman who had one. I fell in love with it immediately. I hemmed and hawed, feeling guilty for wanting it, but finally I went out and bought myself one.” She beamed at Denise. “And believe me, I’ve never regretted it.”

  “God, Helene.”

  “They’re already dead, Denise. I don’t condone abortion anymore than you do, but it’s legal and that’s not likely to change. And as long as it stays legal, these poor little things are going to be killed day after day, weeks after week, hundreds and thousands and millions of them. We have no control over that. And buying foet accessories will not change that one way or another. They’re already dead.”

  Denise couldn’t argue with Helene on that point. Yes, they were dead, and there was nothing anyone could do about that. But . . .

  “But where do they sell this stuff? I’ve never once seen it displayed or even advertised.”

  “Oh, it’s in all the better stores, but it’s very discreet. They’re not stupid. Foet may be legal but it’s still controversial. Nobody wants trouble, nobody wants a scene. I mean, can you imagine a horde of the faithful hausfraus from St Paul’s marching through Bergdorf’s? I mean really.!”

  Denise had to smile. Yes, that would be quite a sight.

  “I guess it would be like the fur activists.”

  “Even worse,” Helene said, leaning closer. “You know why those nuts are anti-fur? Because they’ve never had a fur coat. It’s pure envy with them. But foet? Foet is tied up with motherhood and apple pie. It’s going to take a long time for the masses to get used to foet. So until then, the market will be small and select. Very select.”

  Denise nodded. Select. Despite all her upbringing, all her beliefs, something within her yearned to be part of that small, select market. And she hated herself for it.

  “Is it very expensive?”